


Brothers and Sisters

by Moczo



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Action/Adventure, Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2019-09-20 18:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 146,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17027550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moczo/pseuds/Moczo
Summary: One night, in a lost temple far beneath the Sword Coast, dark forces stirred with dark intent towards the children of a dead god. Battle was joined, and when the smoke cleared only two of these special children still lived. Or... was it three?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The first step in moving my stories over from FF.net! I'm going to try to be putting up four or five chapters from my biggest fics over there every week; starting with this one since it's the only one currently still in-progress and not dead. Infinity and Chaos Theory will also be going up here, and once that's all done I can start putting up new content and maybe moving over one-shots. Still undecided if they should all come over here or not. 
> 
> I'm very lazy and yet paradoxically rather prolific in the writing department, so y'know. May take awhile to get it all over.

**Prologue**

(*)

There are some places in the Realms that no good can possibly come of, and this was one of them.

The temple was, itself, a place obviously meant for darkness. Hidden away beneath the ground, surrounded by undead, lit only by flickering torches illuminating the skull engraved upon the floor and surrounded by a circle of teardrops—or possibly drops of blood—it was already not a place that any sane body would linger in. The circle of robed figures surrounding the altar set at the northern end of it, opposite the entrance, a low chant echoing between them, did not improve the scenario. The four armored black knights, Deathbringers clasping massive runed broadswords, made things worse still. The high priestess, her robes coated from head to toe in shimmering red blood, the sacrificial dagger clasped lovingly to her chest and an expression of almost sexual bliss on her face, completed the ensemble so perfectly that anyone who stumbled upon this most unholy of locations would be running for his or her life the instant they saw it. Assuming they _could,_ considering the ghouls and animated skeletons that roamed freely about the caverns outside. The clerics no longer held magic to command such things, sadly, but the doors kept them out well enough, and they were naturally attracted to the temple site by the energy left by years of dark rituals. It would be foolish to disregard such valuable guard dogs.

It was the children, however, that were the worst part.

There were seven of them, ranging from infants to youths approaching their tenth year. Most looked human, but the humanoid races were often hard to differentiate as children, and the priests had hardly bothered to label them, so only a few were obvious. Two elves, one Gold, one Moon, identifiable by the odd shade of their skin and the points of their ears. One particularly large lad, dark skinned and far larger than his seven summers would have suggested, was clearly too tall already to be anything but human. One young boy, no more than four, already had a few thin whiskers that clearly marked him as a dwarf. But all had one thing in common: Save for one, each was kept in a separate, rusted metal cage that seemed more suitable for a kennel than a child.

There were also ten empty cages. They had not been empty overly long.

Most of them screamed, or cried, or begged for mercy, though not all. The young Moon elf sat in absolute silence, staring into space. The dark-skinned human gripped the bars of his cage tightly, his already impressive muscles straining against the rusted iron.

And the only child that was not caged, a toddler not even to her second winter, was quiet and focused less on her shrieking companions and more upon a small cloth doll she played with in the corner of the temple. After all, she had little reason to be scared. She was not caged, was hardly old enough to realize what was going on, and most tellingly of all, her mother was there to keep her safe. She was discomforted by the noise, but mama had told her to keep quiet, and she was a good girl.

The high priestess rubbed the knife upon her robes, doing little but smearing the blood around. It was not intended to clean anything, but to bathe her in the love of her god, to carve upon her body and soul the _joy_ of this holy day. A few motes of golden dust floated off the empty altar, drawn into the skull upon the floor, which seemed to briefly glow in response.

"Another," the high priestess murmured. "Our lord stirs."

The Deathbringers, faces hidden behind blank black helmets carved in the skull that was the lord's holy symbol, approached the cages and took out the oldest of the remaining girls, a child on the verge of growing into a woman. She screamed and wailed, kicked and bit, and was met with nothing more than annoyance as the only damage done was cuts to her own small fists on the jagged armor of her captors. Emotionless, cold, the four warriors strapped the girl to the altar with the shackles already placed upon it, ignoring her shrieks of terror and pleas for her mother.

"Do not worry," the high priestess said warmly. "Your mother is gone, but soon your father will be here."

The child blinked tear-stained eyes in confusion, briefly calming...

The sacrificial dagger dove into her throat, slashing open the artery and pulling out almost before the startled child even knew she'd been stabbed. She tried to scream, tried to cry, but produced nothing but a wet gurgle as her eyes grew glassy and dim after only a few seconds. The blood ran down the altar freely, spraying across the face of the serenely smiling priestess. She did not turn away, merely closed her eyes and basked in the warmth.

"Our lord and master, hear our prayer," she intoned as she had done after each of the sacrifices before. "This life we give to you, as you gave it to the world. Feast upon it, and return to us." The circle of clerics repeated her words softly, each clutching an identical, albeit cleaner, dagger to their chests, the blade etched with the same skull and teardrop as the symbol on the floor.

The child on the altar ceased struggling after a few seconds, the flow of blood from her throat slowing, then stopping. After a few short moments, her body vanished, dissolving in soft green light, which then shattered into motes of dust which were drawn once more into the temple's holy symbol.

"Another," the high priestess said, once again. "Our lord stirs."

The Deathbringers moved from their positions around the altar toward the cages once again, before the priestess said, "No. Stop."

"Mistress?" the leader of the warriors asked.

"My daughter. Bring my daughter to me," she said, smiling at the small red-haired toddler with her doll.

"I thought she was to be last?"

"Sentimentality only, commander. And now that we are here, so close... she should meet her father." the priestess's bloodstained smile was warm and maternal, a grim sight considering the blood that coated her like a second skin. "Bring me my daughter."

The Deathbringer commander shrugged, walking toward the toddler, who looked on quietly, without complaint. And why not? He had helped care for her all her life, and she knew her mother wouldn't hurt her. The commander reached down to pick up the child...

And the wooden double-doors of the temple blew inward, lightning searing through the temple in a blaze of sudden light and thunder, the smell of ozone filling the enclosed space. The bolt of lightning slammed home on the dais near the altar, striking one of the priests in the back, the man screaming as the electricity roared through him, his flesh blackening as he fell to the floor in a twitching, smoking mass.

Twelve figures, men and women alike, rushed into the temple, armed and armored, led by a young, black-bearded man in a gray robe. "Secure the children! No quarter!" he commanded, lightning still dancing between his outstretched fingers as he dove into another casting. Four of his companions halted with him, one raising a wand and the other three letting fly arrows, as those of their group armed with melee weapons charged into the fray, swords and spears at the ready.

The Deathbringers met them; outnumbered, but armed and armored with finer gear, they halted the charge dead in the center of the temple. Swords met and clashed, the fighters taking lead slamming against the Deathbringer line with steel as the spearmen backing them jabbed through holes in the melee, seeking holes in the enemy's armor. Arrows slammed into them and skipped off plate steel, one bolt flashing past to strike another cleric in the eye. The man did not even scream as he fell bonelessly.

The high priestess snarled, her expression shifting with mad speed from serene joy to insane fury as her eyes locked on the painfully familiar figure of the mage leading the attackers. She cast off her blood-soaked robe, revealing a shirt of dark chainmail and a mace at her side, screaming, "They _must not_ take the children! Kill them! _Kill them all!"_

The surviving clerics followed suit, drawing slings, wands, and hammers from beneath robes. Their god could not hear them, but each was a killer, and they joined battle with deadly intent. For a time, it seemed they had the upper hand; with the addition of the clerics, the battle raging in the center of the temple was even in numbers, and the Deathbringers had held back the attackers on their own. A warhammer swatted aside a longsword, and one of the armored knights struck in, cutting the man nearly in half with a single swing of his massive blade. The attackers began to fall back, the swordsmen dissolving into the line of pikemen behind them...

And then the mage finished his casting.

The fireball slammed into the altar and exploded, shattering the stone table and incinerating the two priests still standing near it slinging stones, and it became clear that the attackers falling back had been all part of the plan. The flames roared back through the center of the temple, rolling over the priests and Deathbringers, but stopping just short of both the children and the attacking warriors. This time, ironically, it was the Deathbringers who took the worst of it, their thicker and all-covering armor soaking the heat in, cooking them inside the steel. The priests screamed in agony, flame rolling over them, burning them and heating their chainmail.

The attacking warriors redoubled their assault. A Deathbringer who had cast aside his burning helmet to gasp for air fell, a spear driving into his neck. Another went down to an arrow slipping into the mouth-slit of his helmet as he reeled, stunned. The tide turned.

For the first time, the redhaired toddler began to cry, as she saw her mother fall. Death, she had seen all her life. Mama had never been hurt. She shrieked, uncertain and terrified, huddling against the walls of the temple.

(*)

The young, dark-skinned boy blinked in confusion and pain. The blast of the fireball had not harmed him beyond some bruises, the shock throwing him against the bars... but it had also knocked some rocks free from the crumbling ceiling of the buried temple. One had landed in his cage, and the lock was rusty...

The boy slammed the rock home, and the lock shattered with a single sharp snap. He broke out, repeating the process five more times, letting the doors fly open. "This is all you get from me," he snarled at the other children, before running for the door as the two warring parties clashed.

Of the five children still living, the halfling girl was too small to run, too broken to realize she should. She sat blankly in her cage, staring at nothing and sobbing quietly. The dwarf boy and the human boy were screaming, panicking, huddling to their cages as if the bars would protect them from the madness.

The Moon elf boy grabbed the little Gold elf girl, and dragged her from her cage even as she squeaked in protest. He was older than her, and larger, and though she struggled briefly he pulled her along without much effort, sprinting for the door.

" _The children!"_ the high priestess screamed, running for the cages and ignoring the arrow that slammed into her thigh, the fanatic madness overwhelming the pain. The sacrifices, the ritual, had given the essence in the children greater power. It would delay the awakening to simply kill them...

But it would delay it far more to let them live, and her lord _stirred_.

She slammed open the door of the first cage and brought her mace down on the child within, hard.

(*)

Gorion cursed, drawing a silver wand from his belt and aiming it at the priestess. It was too late to save the first of the children, but gods willing...

A hurled warhammer slammed into his wards, the magical protections dulling the blow but doing nothing to stop it from obscuring his vision and balance. He cursed once again, shifting his wand to aim at the charging cleric, and sending a wave of cold against the zealot, freezing him in mid-step. The wand, its final charge used up, disintegrated in his hand.

He shifted his gaze upon the priestess once again, casting the quickest spell he could think of that would not endanger the children. Tiny bolts of red-white light struck out, searing into her flank, exacerbating her already existing wound.

She barely seemed to notice, her mad smile only growing wider as she brought her mace down a second time, on a second child.

Gorion snarled in rage, focusing his mind, and cast again as she limped to the final cage. The words slid from his lips without a stutter, his fingers weaving, and another magical missile, and arrow lined with fire, leaped from his fingers. The woman clasped the final door in her hand...

The arrow slammed into her spine, flames running down her back, and she tumbled, twitching madly. He sighed, running over to the cage and kicking her mace away. "It's over, Alianna. Not this one. You don't get this one."

The priestess looked up at him, a snarl on her face and madness whirling in her dying eyes. "Should have known... you were... one of _them._ But you were handsome and... well... a woman who has lost her love is... often weak for a handsome face..."

"If it helps, you did not give away enough information, no matter how much I... pressed," Gorion said flatly. "We found one of your acolytes who had fallen to Cyricism, and he sold the temple's location to us. You can die secure in the knowledge that your failure was outside your control. We are taking the children."

"The children..." Alianna the priestess said softly, as her hand slipped to her belt, "belong with their father."

Gorion's eyes had just enough time to widen as she slipped the small bottle from her pouch, and raised his quarterstaff to crush her skull...

Just a _second_ too late.

The Oil of Impact detonated, the fireball blinding and deafening.

(*)

The Moon elf boy ran, the small golden-haired girl dragging behind him. "Stop _pulling!"_ she shrieked.

"We have to run! They're going to come after us!"

"I—"

"Shut _up!_ I'm not going to leave you, so just follow me!" he snapped back, stopping to shake her a few times. "We have to run, don't you understand?! I know you're scared, but..."

The girl sobbed, rubbing tears from her golden-skinned face, black eyes shimmering. "I... I... I... I'm just..."

He sighed. "I know you're scared. But we have to run. These people, they... they... my mother was... we have to _run_. Please."

"Y-yes. I'm... sorry," the girl said. "I... I wouldn't have... th-thank you. I was too scared to run. So thank you for saving me." She leaned in on impulse and kissed him on the cheek.

"You were the only other elf. I... well, I don't know. I could only take one, so..." he stammered, blushing furiously. He was older than he looked, past his tenth year, but he was still at an age where he was not _quite_ sure how to react to this. "Look, let's just go, we can't stay here."

She nodded. "Right, I-"

She cut off, her body jerking oddly. The boy blinked in confusion as she fell forward into him, until he looked down and saw the arrow protruding from her chest, piercing through her filthy gray prisoner's robe...

Her body faded into light and dust before she even hit the ground. The last sight of her face the boy saw was the terror in her eyes vanishing into light...

A tall man with dark hair and plate armor, still holding a bow, stepped forward from the ruins littering the cavern, a woman in plain clothes at his side carrying a long, curved sword. "Galvarey," she said softly. "Gorion told us to act as the rearguard while he _saved_ the children. What have you done...?"

"I saved her," the man said firmly, putting aside his bow and drawing a short sword as he walked toward the horrified young elf. "from a life as herself. It was the best I could do for the abomination."

"Gorion..."

"Gorion trusts too much, Kail." Galvarey picked up the young elf by his hair, pressing the short sword against his chest. "You don't want to live a whole life being hated and hunted by everyone in the world, do you boy? It's quicker this way."

"He's just a child..." the woman said softly.

The man with the dark beard pressed his sword more tightly against the elven boy's face, his expression grim. "Yes. A child of-"

He was cut off, then, by a hurled rock slamming into the side of his head. He snarled in rage as the elf boy sprinted away into the ruins, his eyes scanning the ruins for the source of the missile, and not seeing the young, dark-skinned boy slipping away into the shadows.

"Find him. Kill him. We can't let any of the children escape," Galvarey snapped, raising a hand gingerly to the bruise forming on his temple. He and Kail ran into the ruins after the boy...

The first ghoul found them in seconds, the price of speed over quiet. Their approach had been quiet and warded by spells both divine and arcane. Those wardings had expired, and the sentries noticed them. Two warriors clattering with metal were more of a target than a couple running children, after all...

The two fighters stood back to back, weapons raised as a dozen ghouls swarmed in at them from out of the ruined buildings of the dead city, hissing madly.

The elf boy and the human boy ran, as their pursuers fell into the rhythm of battle.

(*)

Gorion had been warded against flame. The light and smoke stunned him, the shock hurled him back, but the flame rolled over him without doing more than minor harm.

The child, and the priestess, and the warriors fighting in the center of the temple were not so lucky.

"Stand," a rough female voice said, pulling Gorion to his feet. "No good comes of the rest of us dying in this pit."

"Jaheira," Gorion said with a sigh. "We failed, didn't we."

"Aye, but not so horribly as if we had not intervened at all," Jaheira said firmly, running a gloved hand across her sweaty brow. She had been near the entrance with the archers, and taken only the lightest brunt of the blast. "We stopped the ritual, if nothing else. Though damn if the price was not high..."

Gorion's eyes widened. "Khalid?"

The woman smiled grimly. "Thank Silvanus he can handle a bow," she nodded back to the door, and her husband, who, against all logic or reason, waved at her, smiling nervously, his bow held at his side. "All those in the melee..."

"I saw," Gorion said with a sigh. "At least a few of the children escaped in the madness... it's more of a chance than they had before. But... but I had hoped we could save at least _one..."_

A soft, sniffling sob rang through the silent temple. Gorion, eyes wide with frantic hope, ran to the source of it, his robes swirling around him, and found her. Hidden behind the pillar, a young thing, no more than two, dressed in finer clothes than the children in the cages had been, bright red hair pulled into a ponytail...

The same as the hair her mother had had.

He had been seeing Alianna under cover for the better part of three months, trying to divulge some information from her. It had been among the more unpleasant assignments he'd ever undertaken. The priestess had been... like a serpent wearing human skin. Playing at being a woman of society, daughter of a wealthy merchant, walking among the Baldur's Gate gentry like she belonged there. Gorion had known what she really was, more than one agent had delivered the description of a priestess matching her description at the high temples of the Lord of Murder, long before the Time of Troubles. He had known she was still involved... just not known _where_ she did it, in secret.

The information really had come from a fallen Acolyte. He had 'courted' Alianna for three months, and found nothing of value from her. Not even that she'd been a mother to one of the Children herself.

The toddler looked up at him, tears streaking her face, and said one of the only five words she knew. "M-mama..."

Gorion smiled sadly, and pressed a hand to her forehead, a minor spell to lull her to sleep slipping from his fingers. "I'm sorry, little one. I'm sorry, but no."

"Gorion!" Khalid shouted. "G-Galvarey is back. H-he said that... that the undead took the children who escaped. H-he couldn't save t-t-them. Gods above..."

Jaheira snapped. "The creatures approach, and we've no spells of warding this time. All of you, get together. I'll patch what wounds I can, and we'll have to make a run of it."

Gorion sighed, wrapping the toddler in his cloak and preparing for another long sprint. "Just one. Just one..."

(*)

A mage in gray carried a red-haired young girl out of the darkness, her face streaked with tears and ash. The sun shone onto her copper-red hair, and he stroked her head as she slept.

In the alleys of the city of Baldur's Gate, a pale young elf and a dark young man crawled out of the sewers and turned to each other, their eyes far colder than boys their age should have been.

"You saved me?"

"I drew them in. Distracted the monsters. I didn't even see you," the human boy said. "I told you when I opened the cage: that's the last you're getting from me." His eyes were cold. Too cold for his age by far. "That's the last anyone is getting from me."

The elf tilted his head to one side. "Good. Then I don't owe you."

They each nodded once and ran in opposite directions, the human deeper into the city, the elf towards the gates.

Three children, each one meant to die, each one a survivor, took three different paths into the world.

In an empty, lifeless temple, among the corpses of his faithful and his foes alike, the skull of a dead god grinned in darkness.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**(*)**

It was four years after the massacre at the temple, and the eleven-year-old Sarevok Anchev sat on his knees, tears of helpless fury running down his face.

He had escaped that Hell, living on the streets for some time, until he had been adopted by a well-off merchant, Rieltar Anchev, himself recently moved to the city and setting up a new branch of his guild. He and his wife were unable to conceive, and appearances were everything. To hide the couple's sterility, Sarevok had been chosen as their adoption... his dark skin and hair had hinted at Sembian heritage, much like his new 'parents', and few would question that he was not their child by blood.

He had not had much choice in the matter, but he had been content with it... his 'father' was a cold, distant, and brutal man, but hardly worse than living on the streets. He was made to study and train for long hours, learning swordsmanship from Sir Angelo Dosan, the half-elf swordmaster of the house guard, and letters and sums from Rieltar's attendant mage Winski. Sarevok had little love for either man, particularly the way the old wizard looked at him as though trying to peer through his skin and into his soul.

But food was plentiful, he had a warm bed to sleep in, and while his father might strike him on a whim, he never struck to kill or tried to force himself on the young boy. This set him above the denizens of the Gate's back alleys by far; Sarevok habitually carried two knives at all time for a _reason_. Better, Rieltar's wife, Arcine, was a meek and quiet but genuinely pleasant woman, who had gone above and beyond her husband's attitude to truly treat the boy like her own son. She was not above hiding the boy if he chose to skip out on a lesson or two, happy to slip him a small toy or a book of stories, always ready with a warm cup of tea or a small sweet. She was not his mother... he remembered little of his real mother, but he knew that much. But most days... he felt that she was _better_ than his real mother.

Particularly today. After all, once you lost something, it was hard to remember it with anything but fondness...

It had been a day like any other. He had finished his lessons with Angelo, and was in a good mood; he was a large and powerful boy, stronger than some adults even as young as he was, and he took to the battle like a fish to water. Sword lessons with Dosan, while painful if he failed a routine, were diverting and useful. But it was time to take a meal before Winski took him to their manor's study for his history lesson, and lunch with moth—with Arcine was always a pleasant afternoon. He opened the door to the dining room, saying, "Arcine, what has the chef prepared? I am..."

He fell silent, then at what he saw.

Rieltar, stood in the dining hall next to the long oaken table. He was not an overly tall man, nor particularly well-muscled; soft, not fat but not athletic either, the result of a career made in haggling, negotiating, and studying rather than physical labor. It was only in his eyes one could see the danger in the man... like two chips of black ice set against the smooth and soft tan of his skin. His robes were brightly dyed and of excellent make, in shades of green and gold.

The blood clashed with them horribly.

Arcine lay on the floor, her blood soaking into the Calishite carpet, pooling around the red-streaked bruise around her neck. Someone had strangled her, with such force it had pierced the skin and cut into her throat.

'Someone'.

Rieltar still held the bloody garrote wire in his hands.

"Hold him," his foster father said, gesturing lazily at Sarevok, and two armored guards standing post beside the door separated from the wall, forcing the boy to the floor, his arms twisted behind his back. It was pointless; he was too stunned to fight back. All he could do was stare on, gazing at the glassy eyes of his... his _mother..._

"She was disloyal. Taking comfort in the arms of another man. Some common brat who worked the warehouses for the company," Rieltar said. "I had him removed earlier today, but her... my own wife. That required a personal touch."

He stepped forward, running the bloody wire lightly along his adopted son's face. "See that you never betray me. Let her be the example of how it ends, and learn well."

Sarevok did not know how long he sat there, staring at the cooling body.

But that was the moment he knew that someday, Rieltar would die by his hand. He didn't have the power to do it yet, he didn't have anything but impotent rage, but one day, _one day..._

The door opened silently, and Winski Pretorate, the young man's mage tutor, opened the door and looked in, taking in the scene. He did not say a word, or do anything to comfort the boy. That would be counter-productive to the wizard's true aim.

He simply smiled, as the boy sobbed and raged over the corpse of the closest thing he'd had to a mother.

(*)

It was eight years after the massacre at the temple, and two red-haired ten year olds ran through the library.

"Give it _back, Immy!"_ the taller of the two snapped. Her legs were longer and she was faster on a straight run, but the girl before her danced past readers, under tables, and between shelves like a cat, while her pursuer stumbled at each new obstacle.

"Mmmmmmmmmmm, it smells so _good_!" the little girl named Immy teased, an impish grin on her face as she brandished her ill-gotten prize of spiced bread. "I can't wait to eat iiiiiiit~"

"Don't! You! _Dare!_ " the taller girl screamed, childish fury lending her tone a screech.

"Then you better catch me Seffy! It's still waaaaaaaaaaarm!"

Immy turned a corner, dodging past a junior Chanter performing his daily recitations, spun along the bannister down the stairs...

And ran into something both unyielding and soft, landing on her rear with a pained squeak. "Owwwww... oh. Um. Hi, Gorion..."

The mage sighed in annoyance as the second girl screeched to a half at the edge of the steps, her tiny expression of fury becoming immense embarrassment immediately. "F-father! Oh. Um. Our apologies, for... the noise, and..."

"The noise, and the running, and the knocking of books off the shelves? In a library? A library which, I might add, has _extremely_ harsh punishments for damaging the tomes in any way?" Gorion asked dryly.

"... Yes?" the two girls said. Or asked. It wasn't clear.

In the years since that fateful night, he had been proven right in taking the girl in. Sephiria had been an angel to raise, since he had brought her home with him to Candlekeep. It had been a place close to his heart for many years, and he had needed a safe place to raise the girl, so the great library south of Baldur's Gate had been a choice as good as any; it was a veritable fortress, and this place full of serenity and knowledge, he had hoped, would dissuade her... darker impulses. And for those first eight years, it certainly had; the girl was well-mannered, charming, not overly fond of studying or reading unless it was stories of heroes and dragons, but strong and healthy.

Then Imoen had come to join them.

The girls had become fast friends, more like sisters than anything even a few months after meeting. It was just that Imoen seemed terminally allergic to obeying rules or using an indoor voice, and she seemed to draw out the mischievous, childish side of his calm, thoughtful daughter. Which, while not _bad_ for a ten-year-old child, _per se_ , made things quite a lot worse on her father.

"Now. I assume, Imoen, that this," Gorion said, snatching away the small treat from her and ignoring her squeak of protest. "Was stolen?"

"How come you assume I stole anything?!"

"Because in the five months since you have come here, you have stolen my favorite quill seventeen times, and you cannot write."

"Well, of course not," Imoen said, all trace of outrage vanishing from her face to be replaced with a chipper grin, showing off a few missing teeth. "That's why I need the quill! To practice, y'know?"

Gorion rolled his eyes. "Winthrop needs the beds made and the pans in the kitchen scoured. Run off now."

Her face falling at the mention of her own foster-father, the young girl tromped off sullenly, muttering something under her breath that sounded like, "Buffleheaded mutton-mongering riff-raff."

"Sephiria?" Gorion asked gently.

"... Yes, father?"

"You know better."

She sighed, looking down at her feet in guilt. "Yes, father. It's just that... well, it was _mine_. Parda gave it to me for doing good in my lessons this week, and..."

"I know, my child. I know. It was wrong of Imoen to take it from you. But you must remember," Gorion said, lifting the girl's face to look her in the eyes. "Anger is very often the difference between justice and revenge. And only the former is righteous."

The young girl took a deep breath, and composed her face into a somber expression. "Stop. Breathe. And think. Then, act how you feel is right."

Gorion smiled, and handed the small treat to his daughter. "Good girl. Run along now... Jondalar has sent for you."

The girl blinked. "Jondalar?"

Gorion looked away, smiling lightly. "Well. It seems he think you are old enough to start learning with a wooden sword, and..."

With a squeal of joy, the girl ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, sprinting to get out of the library as quickly as possible.

"Slow, please!" Gorion called after her, trying not to laugh.

(*)

It was ten years after the massacre at the temple, and Acherai Moonshadow laid the gem down. "Five-hundred gold."

The old fence laughed in the young elf's face. "Half that, kid, and thank me for being generous."

"I am twenty years old, and the diamond is real."

"Twenty's young for an elf, and the diamond is flawed. And don't be acting like you can demand jeweler's market prices from a pawn shop, in the first place!"

"Flawed?! It's the size of a _grape_ , stolen right from the personal wagon of that fat old marchioness visiting from Amn. This is a stone of _rare_ quality. I refuse to part with it for less than four-hundred."

"Which means it will be harder to sell, sneak thief. And besides, how would you get hold of such a thing? Two-seventy-five."

"Most sneak thieves can't turn literally invisible. Which is why I need _three_ -seventy five, and not a copper less. I've expenses."

"Three-fifty, and not a copper _more_."

"Three-fifty _and_ one scroll from the back room," Acherai said. Minor mages needed money too, sometimes, and the old man was a very good pawnbroker. Even weak scrolls of genuine magic fetched solid coin if you could find a buyer.

"Deal," the old man said flatly. "Be happy I like you."

"Always am, old man, always am," Acherai said, rubbing his hands together. Three-hundred and fifty! Less than the gem was worth, but more than he'd expected to get. After all these years, it was really _time_.

After the massacre at the temple, Acherai had been adrift. Lost, alone, far from his home in Evereska... not that he had anything to return to there. He had no family he knew of besides his mother, and she had been... lost... when the cult came. And so he had made his way east, far from the city they had dragged him to, and vanished. A child could fit into many places, and Acherai was agile and intelligent. Sneaking aboard a caravan was not so hard, and Scornubel was not so terribly far from Baldur's Gate. Vanishing into the the underbelly of the Caravan City was not easy for a child.

But a child who was more agile than any human boy, and had natural talents lending themselves to stealth and spotting hidden doors and compartments, well... he had ways.

The first years had been spent as a pickpocket, something he'd had a natural talent for. The thieves guild had been happy to take him in, then, and he'd graduated to burglary by his fifteenth year. And from there, with more coin flowing in despite guild dues, the final stepping stone had been in sight.

Magecraft.

Acherai was not a stupid elf. He had no idea why those people had taken him, or those other children, down to that hellhole. But he had seen them, killers and warriors, cast into chaos by a single mage, lightning and fire hurled from his fingers. He wanted that power. He _needed_ that power. 'Helpless' was not a state of being he _ever_ wanted to be again. He was a survivor, and magic would help him stay one.

And so, from his fifteenth summer on, ever scrap of free time, every spare coin, had gone to the Art. Hedge wizards, traveling adventurers, anyone who could teach him _anything_. He was a slightly built boy even for an elf; he would never be more than middling in melee and was a hopeless shot with a bow. But he was also a _smart_ boy. His mother had taught him to read, and more advanced books came with practice and, well, theft. He was good at theft.

He had gathered only maybe a half-dozen true spells; they were hard to find and most beyond his ability. But with this addition to his spell book and his coin purse, he had enough to buy passage out of the city, and hopefully enough talent to spend a few years under the master mage who dwelt outside Beregost, south of the Gate. Within striking distance, one might say.

And then, when he had the power and the knowledge he needed...

Well, then he would see about finding out just who exactly had killed his mother, and tried to kill him, and most especially _why_.

And then kill them, of course, if any still lived. Horribly and in lingering agony.

He was a survivor, and one did not survive by letting obvious enemies wander about.

(*)

It was fourteen years after the massacre in the temple, and Sarevok Anchev sat staring in disbelief at the book that Winski had laid before him. "You are _sure_?"

"The dreams. The unusual circumstances of your arrival here. Your... nearly _inhuman_ strength and skill with the blade," the old mage said. "I have suspected it for some time, of course, but I was not certain until you came of age, lord Anchev."

"Don't call me that," Sarevok growled. "'Lord Anchev'. Reminds me of Rieltar."

"Of course, master. But as I said... I _am_ quite certain. The signs are all there. It explains _everything_ , as I'm sure you agree."

"Yes... yes," the boy... no, a man now... rumbled. Adulthood had only added on to Sarevok's already freakish size and strength, and years of training had left him among the most skilled blades in the city. "It explains _more_ than everything. But... what to _do_ with it? I... could destroy him. The bastard who calls himself my father. I knew that, but... I don't know. I held back. If I let him die of old age or sickness, then his wealth would be mine, I would grow old, be a merchant..."

"I imagine that all seems a bit pointless, now," Winski said softly.

"Yes. _Yes_. Why should I dream of... of gold and trade, when I could have so. Much. _More..._ "

"You could," Winski said softly, "have _everything_."

The younger man's eyes raced, scanning up and down the pages, his eyes devouring the words. "I'll need more. I'll need to learn to control it, and... yes, I'll need power. Not just my own. Men. Soldiers. Armies..."

"Worshippers?"

Sarevok looked up at his mentor, and a smile tugged at his lips as something unpleasant entered his eyes. "Yes. Worshippers. And books. Arrange transport to Candlekeep as soon as possible. I need more. I need to find out everything I can. _Everything_."

"As you will, master."

"And tell Tamoko to attend me," he murmured, mentioning the name of his favored lover. "I want to _celebrate_."

(*)

It was seventeen years after the massacre in the Temple, and Sephiria of Candlekeep looked over the steel blade in her hands in awe, the shirt of chainmail on her bed.

"Sir, I..." she began.

"Say nothing. You deserve it and more," Jondalar, her swordmaster, said. "Can't give you much, sadly. Not no fancy rituals, no priests of Torm around these places. Can't make you a proper paladin, but at least can give you a proper sword."

The girl smiled, her nineteenth birthday made glorious indeed. She had never been a book-learning girl, to her father's sadness, but she had taken well to the sword. More than that, though... she had taken well to what was right.

She might not have learned her foster father's knowledge of words, numbers, histories and spells. But she had learned something more important. His morality. His belief in justice. His need to help those who couldn't help themselves. The path of the paladin had been her goal since she was twelve.

Imoen called her stuffy, but not to her face. Sephiria had grown up well, tall and naturally athletic, closer to six feet than five. Further, years of sword-work had left her with muscles in her arms and shoulders that most women could never imagine. With her gold-copper curls and bright blue eyes, the boys and men around the keep were watching her more and more closely... until such time as they saw the muscles beneath that soft skin when she lifted a sword. A pretty face appealed to men, but a pretty face who could punch their teeth out the other side of their head tended to turn them off quickly.

She didn't really mind. Paladins were supposed to be virtuous, after all, so refraining from smashing a guardsman in the jaw for balking at her biceps was good practice.

She lifted the sword, and smiled. She did not even look out the window of her small quarters, to see a tall, broad-shouldered young man holding an old scroll, staring up at her room thoughtfully from the courtyard, and speaking to an older, skeletally thin man in robes.

(*)

It was eighteen years after the massacre at the temple, and Acherai walked out of High Hedge, two years of apprenticeship behind him and a small smile on his lips as he began the walk to Beregost, a spellbook peeking out of his bag. From there, it would be a simple matter of finding a caravan or party heading north, and barely a day's journey to Candlekeep.

You could find information on anything in Candlekeep, and Master Thalantyr had, ah-hem, _'donated'_ an appropriate book he could use as an entry fee. The old man would hardly notice the forgery, he was so caught up in being surly to visitors and droning about how awful his adventuring days had been. So wise, and yet _so_ easy to fool if you just knew the right buttons. He hadn't even noticed that junior apprentice Melicamp had stolen those bracers he kept in his locked safe! Honestly, you'd think if they were so dangerous he would check on them every so often.

Well, it wasn't as though Melicamp was skilled enough to _do_ anything with them, and perhaps if he noticed the bracers gone, it would distract him from checking to make sure all his books were in place.

The young elf walked to Beregost, a tune on his lips and mind dancing with the images of men in armor crafted like skulls. He vaguely wondered how long it would take, among the tomes, to find some sign of them, some hint as to the nature of their bizarre cult.

And then he wondered what they would look like on fire. It had been so long since he'd seen it, after all.

(*)

It was eighteen years after the massacre at the temple, and Sarevok fastened his gauntlets, admiring the vicious serrated spikes that adorned them. The armor had met his every specification. Just wearing it made him feel stronger. More alive.

His flesh was weakness. This armor, black steel adorned with blades and warm with the power of his blood. This was his true flesh now.

"You are certain, milord?" Tamoko asked gently, her lilting voice hesitant as she finished fastening the straps on his breastplate, taking care not to cut herself on the spikes. She would never admit it out loud, of course, but the suit was a bit impractical. She preferred plainer steel. But then, she was not Sarevok. His concerns were... the last few years, not so mundane as her own. It wasn't about practically, it was about being seen as something more than human, and then using that perception to _become_ something more than human. The armor was not meant to be practical. Based on the already intimidating armor of the Deathbringer he had spent the years since learning his heritage training to be, and then made even more inhuman and vicious through Sarevok's personal adjustments, you could hardly even call it 'armor' anymore. Armor was made to defend, and this suit was less a tool for defense, and more a tool for inspiring terror.

And through that terror, to forge belief.

"All the signs are there. She is the proper age. The Harper we broke last month confirmed her foster father led the raid on the temple. I thought only I and the elf lived, but it seems one more slipped the net," he let out a low chuckle. "If only I had known then what I know now. I'd have let the Harpers slit the little brat's throat. Still, he'll show up soon enough. They'll _all_ show up soon enough."

He turned to Tamoko, and his smile was more like a predator's glare than any expression of joy, but he still pulled her into a fervent kiss. "It's _started._ First blood has been spilled, and I spilled it. And now, all that's left... is to just. Keep. Going.

"Holy War. And it. Will. Be. _Glorious,"_ Sarevok whispered, letting the slightly limp Tamoko slip from his grasp to clear her head, and picking up his horned helmet. The ogres that had joined them in their camp, simple mercenaries, grunted at the motion.

The helmet slid over his head, completing the armor, and his eyes took on a golden glow, the plate channeling forth the power in his blood. He raised his sword, a mammoth greatsword it would have taken most men both hands to hold. He carried it easily in one.

"Time to _hunt_."

(*)

It was eighteen years after the massacre at the temple, and Sephiria obediently followed her foster father into the rain.

"Come, child. The night shall only get worse, so we must find shelter soon. I will explain everything as soon as there is time," he said soothingly as he led her off the road, and she believed him, even as she huddled under her cloak to keep the rain off the sword and armor he had insisted she wear. It was a sign of her respect for her father that she had even agreed to this... vanishing from the keep in the middle of the night, without even bringing Imoen? But after the events of the day, she could hardly blame him...

She shuddered. The man had come up to her in one of the guardhouses, brandishing a dagger, all smiles and rotting teeth, asking if she was truly Gorion's ward. She hadn't been wearing her armor, but she hadn't needed it... he had lunged, but he was an amateur, and her weapon had better reach. One routine, and... and...

It had taken her less time than she had expected to get the blood off her sword. She had thrown the dress away... it was stained beyond salvation, and besides, she didn't feel comfortable wearing it ever again, after that.

Gorion had been right to take her out of that place.

"Wait," her foster father said, going oddly tense, his voice dropping. "Something's wrong."

He turned to face his child, his eyes narrowed. "Prepare yourself. We are in an ambush."

Two lights in the darkness appeared, walking from between the trees. Eyes. Glowing yellow, and lightning illuminated a figure that seemed to be carved from a single chunk of black steel, coated in razors, a massive sword in his grip, monsters stomping from the darkness on either side of him. He spoke, then, his voice so deep and strong Seph thought she could feel her bones shaking.

"You're perceptive, for an old man..."


	3. Chapter Two

Sephiria ran, the rain stinging into her eyes almost as much as her tears.

" _You know why I'm here. Hand over your ward and no-one will be hurt. Resist and it will be a waste of your life_."

She ran, her boots slipping in the mud, her cloak soaked through and clinging to her armor, terror and sadness mingling in her eyes.

" _You are a fool if you believe I would trust your benevolence. Step aside, and you and your lackeys shall be unhurt."_

It was Gorion. He was supposed to be there, always. Her earliest memories were of his smile. She had seen his power a hundred times and never seen it fail.

" _I'm sorry that you feel that way, old man."_

Gorion had been amazing. Four against one, Sephiria frozen in terror. She had been sent running from the first attack, fleeing in response to a bolt of burning energy searing a hole in her armor and Gorion's own screams for her to run while he held them back.

She had looked back a dozen times as she fled, saw him hurling lightning and bolts of magic, arrows of flame and acid leaping from his fingers. He was every bit the hero she'd always known him to be. Two ogres, _two_ , and neither had gotten near enough to even touch him before being reduced to ash and bloody meat. A powerful cleric, her own spells rolling over the battlefield, and he had rendered her helpless with a gesture.

She had been so certain he would triumph. It was just like every story she had ever read... the noble hero standing firm against the onslaught of evil. She had even stopped, briefly, to watch as he stood against the final attacker, waves light and flame rolling off his fingers like some kind of divine emissary facing a glowing-eyed demon from the Nine Hells.

And then the man in armor had stepped out of the inferno untouched, and cut him down with a single blow.

Sephiria ran. She ran and she didn't look back, sprinting madly into the darkness with no concern for where she would go or what she would do.

Her world was already over.

(*)

Sarevok screamed in fury, hacking away at the body of the fallen mage again and again. His initial blow had taken the man nearly in half, and now he shredded those halves further, desecrating the remains, hammering away until he could not recognize it as a person.

He wasn't angry at the dead mage. He was angry at _himself._ He had gotten caught up in the moment, in the electric thrill of battle. The scent of burning flesh in the air, the blood rushing in his ears, the lightning flashing in the sky as his foe's attacks washed off his divine strength like water off a rock. He had faced battle before, but nothing like _this_. The mage had slain two powerful beasts with a gesture, suppressed Tamoko's own powerful spells without visible effort. And yet, Sarevok had destroyed him like he was a helpless child. It had been glorious, everything he had ever dreamed, a worth sacrifice to his impending divinity.

It had also, he thought as the thrill of murder faded from his mind to be replaced by seething fury and the awareness that his _true_ quarry was gone, been a _waste of gods-damned time._

The girl was gone. Vanished into the night, and the storm only getting worse. Tamoko was magically contained in a shimmering sphere of light, and he had no way to free her, even his blade bouncing off harmlessly. Even if he knew which way the child had run, with the forest floor rapidly turning to mud he could hardly hope to catch her on foot in full plate.

He fought the urge to scream at his own foolishness, and instead turned to storm back to camp, leaving Tamoko behind, trapped inside the shimmering sphere. She could find her own way back...

And the way he was feeling now, if she tried to speak to him, he'd likely murder her on the spot.

(*)

"Seems a lotta trouble for some books, is all I'm sayin'," the dwarf said flatly.

"It's not for some books," the elf said with a touch of impatience in his voice. "It's for _the_ books. All the books. Candlekeep has more tomes and records than anywhere else in Faerun. If anyone has data on the cult I'm seeking, it will be the monks there."

"And ye couldn't wait until the rain stopped, at the least?"

"Kagain, I just spent four hours out of my way looking for your damn caravan, only to have you give up and declare yourself a fugitive the second we found it. You agreed to escort me to Candlekeep in exchange. If a little rain is too much for you to keep up your end of the bargain, then you shouldn't have made the bargain to begin with."

"Oh, well, I'm _sorry_ I took away time from his lordship's questin'," Kagain sneered, his mail and axe clinking damply beneath his soaked cloak. "But seein' as we're half drowned out here to help with the little elfling's royal mission, I think I've a _right_ to be a tad bitter."

Acherai sighed. "Gods above, we're not actually doing the 'elf vs. dwarf' thing? You live in a hole, I'm a tree-hugger, we're all quite horrible. _Shut your mouth_. I swear, I should have ditched you and come alone."

"You'd still have me!" said the third, equally soaked figure lagging behind the other two in the storm.

"You don't count as a person, Garrick. I consider you more like a pack mule that can sing."

"Well, that's a bit rude!"

"Rude," Kagain interjected, "Was you hirin' us to work for yer crazy witch woman, and her tryin' to kill us for asking too many questions."

"On the plus side, I did get this new walking stick," Acherai said cheerfully, admiring the enchanted quarterstaff he'd plucked off the woman's corpse. "Magic, too, which counters the iron poisoning going around. And we _did_ get the money in the end."

"Bah, and I got what for it all?!"

"A third cut of the gold."

"... Right, well, guess that's okay, then," Kagain admitted. "Bard can live."

"You were planning to kill me?!" Garrick wailed.

"Only because we don't like you," Acherai said helpfully. "But if you'll both be so kind as to be silent? I think we're nearly th-"

Something large, and hard as metal, and smelling... oddly nice, considering, leaped out of the woods and slammed into the young elf. He had killed three people in his life, one less than a day ago, and as a result liked to think of himself as something of a veteran at such things, and so reacted in a perfectly rational and logical way.

" _Bloody Hells what the blazes get it off kill it kill it..."_

" _Please no I'm sorry he's after me we have to run!"_ the horror said in response, which Acherai had to admit was _not_ what he'd been expecting to hear. Disentangling himself, the elf looked at the 'attacker'.

_Hell-o._

She was, frankly, gorgeous. Young... it was always hard to judge with humans, but he'd place her as younger than him. When you were from a species that was fully grown, physically, by the teenage years, yet not considered _emotionally_ mature until your first century, it became a bit rough to pick up the nuances. Long red hair, soaked with rain but still rather vibrant, strong blue eyes, soft, pale skin, a bit tall for him but hardly a deal-breaker...

He put on his best smile and patted her on the shoulder, locking eyes with her. She was horrified. He could work with horrified. "Hold, miss. My apologies for stepping into your path, but please, who is pursuing you...?"

"Are you deaf? He could be right behind me!" the woman shrieked in a panic, trying to rise to her feet and slipping in the mud to crash down onto her chest, the sound revealing without seeing that there was some kind of metal armor under her cloak. "Oh Gods... oh sweet Torm, mercy..."

Ugh. One of _those_ then. You almost never got an affectionate girl swearing to the god of loyalty and righteousness. Still, in a for a copper, in for a gold. "Miss, I'm afraid we can't do much to help if we know not the problem. Calm, and speak."

"Leave th' brat."

"Dwarf! Stop! Helping!" Acherai hissed. Putting a smile back on he stroked the girl's face, pushing the hair out of her eyes. "Please ignore my companions, they are idiots. Take a deep breath and try to stay calm while I get you out of the rain and get a fire going..."

"No fire," the girl said, gasping in several lungfuls of air. She was still shaking, but the wide-eyed terror was slowly beginning to give way to more reasoning fear and, he noticed, quite a lot of sadness. "Just... shelter. We can't give off any sign where we are. I'll explain everything when we get somewhere out of the storm."

(*)

Sephiria sat, sipping from a canteen and nibbling on a trail biscuit as she related her tale to the strange party in the midst of a small copse of trees that hid a tent and kept the rain and wind away. She shivered with cold and shock as she told of them of the ogres, the dark priest, and most of all, the man in the black armor and his inhuman power.

The reactions she got were not quite what she had expected.

"Oh _my_ it sounds rather dreadful," the young human who didn't seem to have much of an idea of anything that was going on around him. "I wonder if I should be writing it down."

"Not our problem," said the dwarf flatly. "Send the brat away an' let's continue on our road."

The elf who had been looking at her like she was a piece of meat, however, suddenly became very quiet and serious. His eyes had been roaming over her face and body since they'd met, and she _knew_ that stare... it usually ended as soon as they saw her lift something larger than herself, but she didn't much care for it either way. Now, though, he was more somber than the dwarf. "Girl," he murmured. "Describe, him, please. Particularly the armor he wore."

She shuddered. She had seen it only in flashes of lightning and explosions of magic, and yet each detail was burned into her mind. "He was tall. Taller than me by a head, at the least, though some of it was the horns on his helm. It was all black, and... _vicious._ Can't think of a better word. Spikes and blades all over it."

"Did he carry a broadsword? Was the helmet shaped like a skull?" he asked urgently. " _Think."_

"I... yes, and no. The helmet was shaped like... the mouth of some monster. The fangs hid his face," she said, her tone a bit irritated. As if she wasn't getting to that! "Though... there _was_ a skull. A symbol. On his chest."

"A skull, and... anything else?" Acherai whispered.

"Something encircling it. I couldn't get a close look at them, but..."

"Drops of liquid?" he asked. "Tears, maybe, or blood."

"... I think so," she said, eyes widening. "How did you know that..."

Acherai smiled at her, a predatory grin. "Oh, yes. This is _perfect_. Just as I come for them, they're coming out of the woodwork...! Kagain and... um... _you."_

"Garrick!"

"I don't care! We have a new recruit," he said, his eyes locked on the young pseudo-paladin. "Girl. We're on our way to Candlekeep as we speak, but once we leave, you're coming with us. Do you have a problem with that?"

"... What are you _talking_ about?" she asked.

"The man who killed your father is connected to something I've been meaning to look into for a long time. He's after you, and that means when he makes his second attempt, he'll find _me_ ," Acherai said, his eyes practically glowing. "But this time you'll be ready. _We'll_ be ready. I have a book to get us into the Keep. If there's anything in there about this man and his organization, we'll find it. That symbol _has_ to be important, and from there, who knows? Oh, we have so many _opportunities!"_

Sephiria started at him, her eyes narrowed. She hadn't _entirely_ bought his act of kindness... no man who genuinely meant you well spent as much time focusing below your neck as he had. But now, there was something... _wrong_ in his voice.

She shivered, and fought down a yawn. On the other hand, she might not have been in the best position to judge anyone. "We... can't go to Candlekeep..." she murmured, the fatigue starting to catch up with her finally. She smacked herself lightly on the cheeks, and continued, "Assassin. He attacked me in the keep itself. Fought like a fool, but... he proved this man has agents in Candlekeep. If someone starts researching him there, he'll find out. It's not safe."

Acherai turned to her, frustration burning in his eyes... but also triumph. "You said 'we'."

Sephiria sighed. "I'm alone. I've no supplies, no horse, no aid. You're... strange, but if you meant me harm you'd have an easy enough time inflicting it. For the moment, we might as well travel together... though I'm not sure where we'd go."

"Adventuring?" Acherai suggested.

She raised an eyebrow.

"I'm _serious_. This man who attacked you is strong, yes? So we need power, and quickly. There's few better ways," Acherai said. "We travel. And in so doing, we grow stronger from the conflict, and present ourselves as a target to our friend in the armor. And when he finds you again, well... you get your revenge. And I get what I want. Mutual benefit is the backbone of cooperation, is it not?"

Sephiria winced, looking from the elf's cool, hungry eyes to the dwarf's gruff, uncaring ones. The young man didn't seem so bad, but those two... put her on edge. Particularly the elf. He was a handsome one, slender and agile, with black hair nearly as long as hers and shining, dark eyes. And he had only been friendly to her, if in a bit of an odd way. But...

She couldn't shake it. Something was _wrong_ about him. There was just no other word for it.

And yet...

In comparing him to the thought of facing that... _monster_ again, all alone...

She held out her hand, and he shook it firmly. "It is," she answered to his question. "Sephiria of Candlekeep. We've an accord?"

"Acherai Moonshadow, of nowhere worth mentioning. We've an accord _indeed._ "

She wrinkled her nose. "The name sounds fake."

"The name _is_ fake _._ Chose it when I was ten."

She giggled a little at that, even as the fading adrenaline left a weariness in her that was rapidly proving impossible to resist. "Yes it... it sounds like it... … hehehe. Imoen would like you..."

With that thought drifting into her head and a mostly dry blanket around her shoulders, she closed her eyes, thinking of Imoen and how she could possibly tell the girl all that had happened... and how grateful she'd be for the chance to try. She didn't know if she'd see the girl ever again, if she'd ever again be safe in Candlekeep, if her own new 'companions' would slit her throat while she slept.

Nothing was certain in the world, other than how cold it all was.

She slept as best she could, and she didn't dream. Thank the gods for small favors.

(*)

Imoen tried not to scream as she looked over the site.

It wasn't that she was _misbehaving_ , per se. Oh, she knew Winthrop would have her pretty little head on one of his ugly trays if he knew she'd run off like this. But he had never _technically_ told her not to abandon Candlekeep and go off after Sephiria and Gorion, so theoretically speaking she wasn't _not_ allowed to do it. So if he punished her for it when next they crossed paths, well, that was just 'ol Puffguts Winthrop being unreasonable again.

But the way she saw it, she had a moral imperative. Seffy was family, right? Or at least, the closest thing to family that Imoen had. They'd grown up together, played together, chased each other around half the keep (Imoen won), wrestled over dessert (Seffy won, though Imoen lied and told people it was a draw. And that Seffy started it. And that there was a curse on Winthrop's inn that would kill them if they didn't pay an extra silver to the girl who did their turn-down service in the mornings... that last one didn't have much to do with Seffy, it was just a lie Imoen told a lot). Why, Imoen had once put a live weasel into Seffy's bed just to see what would happen when she found it. And the other girl _hadn't_ beaten her to death for it!

That was more important than blood, in Imoen's mind. If a girl didn't kill you over a live weasel tearing up all her unmentionables, than she was family in all the ways that truly mattered.

And so she had dolled up the old bow Winthrop'd bought her for shooting rats (she was a better at keeping 'em out than any cat, and he put them in the stew for the people staying in the cheap rooms), and snuck out. She figured she could make it as an adventurer well enough... she was a good shot, she could pick a lock, she was devilishly beautiful. Gorion would hardly mind her tagging along. And so her first steps into the outside world in over ten years had begun with a song in her heart and a spring in her step.

This had lasted until she found Gorion.

The remains were... were bad. It was all bad. Imoen hadn't always lived in Candlekeep, and she'd seen some bad things in her life. But this wasn't death, this was... Mask's bloody knife, it was like someone had just _ripped_ him...

She stepped in something. Looking down, she saw it was an ear. Not Gorion's thank the gods, unless he had secretly been green with ears the size of her hand, but... well, then.

She turned and ran into the bushes, losing her breakfast in the first one she found. Her heaving coughs rang out through the forest, and she had just enough presence of mind to hope there was nothing about with large fangs and claws to go about eating her at the moment. She could still see Candlekeep in the distance, for crying out loud. Ending her adventures in a wolf's belly before she even got out of sight of home would be a just... just _very undignified._

After a few minutes of that, Imoen pulled her head together and started to think of things. Most people didn't spot it of her, given a general lack of common sense and fondness for sweets that sometimes overruled her judgment, but Imoen was a smart girl, with a thief's eye for detail. And she had seen several dead bodies in that clearing...

And not one of them a girl.

Gorion was gone. He was dead. She was sad, but there was nothing to be done about it and right now the important thing was finding Sephiria. The problem became where to _look_. She didn't know where the girl might have run off to. Assuming she hadn't just been taken by whoever had done... _this_ to Gorion. Imoen had scouted the area a bit and found nothing much, so Sephiria may have moved on.

Imoen's mind jumped back to the letter on Gorion's desk that she had accidentally read three times, the one that had started this whole silly mess. It hadn't been signed, but it had advised Gorion leave the keep, something about moving targets being harder to hit...

And Khalid and Jaheira, in the Friendly Arm Inn. Imoen wasn't a master of maps, but she knew where the inn was, she'd made supply runs there with Winthrop more than once when a caravan got delayed in bringing food and spices to Candlekeep. So all she had to do was head there! She could travel fast off the roads, keeping out of sight, and the Arm would be a safe place to wait. Even if she didn't find Seph there, she'd find Gorion's friends. Yeah, this was the _perfect_ plan!

She slid off into the woods, smiling to herself over her own cleverness.

About three minutes later, four figures walked into the clearing.

"We are _wastin'_ our time," Kagain snapped. "If we're really going through with this daft plan of running as adventurers, we need to be working on finding an employer. Sellswords need someone to buy 'em, and not gonna find one in the woods."

"Oh, Kagain. This is important too! Just think of the tale it will make!" Garrick said. "You can't have a hero who doesn't care about her own family."

"This is not a _story,_ idiot."

"Well of course not, I haven't _written_ it yet. But it's going to be a very good one! And much less, well, _evil_ than Silke's."

Acherai sighed, even as Sephiria began to gather together stones. "I _do_ apologize for them. Particularly the bard. Kagain is at least rather good with an axe, but Garrick is... well, mostly useful for carrying things I don't feel like carrying. I confess I was perhaps too quick to take on allies in Beregost. He had a crossbow, he seemed valid. Feel free to toss him aside as soon as someone more useful comes along."

"... how rude," Garrick whimpered.

Kagain narrowed his eyes. "And another thing. Why is _she_ suddenly in command, elf? You were bad enough, but the whelp's not even bloodied."

"So that bit about her fighting off assassins in Candlekeep just went right over your head, then? Besides, she is in command because if we are trying to lure in someone seeking her," Acherai murmured softly enough for the girl to not hear him over her work, "then it makes rather a lot of sense to have our party _act like her_. Worry not, I'll have her ear the whole of the journey. You'll make a profit."

"I had _best._ "

Sephiria ignored them, gathering up stones. It wasn't much. It was nothing. Gorion had given her a warm bed and meals for her whole life, taught her everything of true value she knew. She owed him her life, in a very real sense; not for saving it, but for teaching how to make it a life worth saving.

Acherai had called it revenge. Gorion wouldn't want that. But it was the only thing that made sense, and... it just...

 _Stop. Breathe. And think. And then do what feels right._ Of all the lessons that her father had taught her, that was the most important one, the key to everything else. The question, then, was: what felt right?

She was a faithful servant of Torm. Er, well, she _would_ be when she found a real priest to take her vows. She shouldn't _take_ revenge.

More importantly, Gorion wouldn't _want_ her to seek revenge. But what about justice? It wasn't the same thing, no matter how many people tended to call it that. This man, this... _thing_. He had murdered her father. Tried to kidnap her. Consorted with ogres, monsters known for killing, raping, and pillaging at will. So, then... as a paladin...

Wasn't stopping him the right thing to do?

She placed the last stone on the cairn she was building for Gorion, and looked down on it sadly. It didn't feel quite right. How could it? She had just _buried_ her father's flayed _corpse_ beneath a pile of stones _,_ she suspected that nothing would feel _right_ for a long, long time.

But it _did_ feel like closure.

"Torm the true, lord of justice, light, and strength, guide this soul on its path," she said softly, kneeling over the cairn. "Guard him faithfully on his path to his eternal reward in the hands of whatever god may have him."

She stood, and turned to her companions. They were _not_ the ideal... but she had work to do, and they were better than nothing.

"Let's move on," she said softly, adjusting her sword and shifting her cloak behind her. "We have work to do."


	4. Chapter Three

"I'm not sure about this," Sephiria said, looking rather guiltily at the road north. "My father was quite specific. His friends would be waiting at the Friendly Arm..."

"I'm sure they are. As will be someone waiting to kill you," Acherai said, stepping onto the road back to Beregost.

"You don't _know_ that."

"No, but I suspect, and suspicion is good enough. You have been targeted by an unusually powerful individual whom we have reason to believe is connected to a fairly large organization. You have fought off an assassin in your own home, implying a bounty is clearly on your head at this point. The Friendly Arm is the nearest population center to Candlekeep and bounty hunters would draw no attention there, making it a superb spot to start a hunt. Therefore, it is best to avoid it as we are _not_ prepared for battle."

Kagain shrugged. "Always prepared."

"The axe was a hint, yes. But our dear girl..."

Sephiria winced. "Please don't call me that."

"Needs outfitting. Thunderhammer's reputation is impeccable, worry not. We'll have you ready and armored in something better than decade-old chain by the end of tomorrow. And in the meantime, Beregost is larger than the Friendly Arm, has a half-dozen potential inns to keep track of for a party, and a lot more girls to look at while they're hunting for you. We'll slip in, rest and resupply, and hire a messenger to contact your friends and tell _them_ to find _us_.

"Trust me," Acherai said as Beregost appeared in the distance. "Only someone with the common sense of a gnat would head to the Friendly Arm _now_."

* * *

 

Imoen smiled, heading into the Friendly Arm.

It was an impressive structure, an old fortress that had once been owned by an evil such-and-such until it was cleaned out by blah blah blah and renovated to be a gaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Imoen was not a history buff. Tales of evil and derring-do were more Seffy's thing. Though she studied harder, she preferred practical knowledge; values of gems in barter, how to get past the second set of tumblers on a Turmish double latch-lock, signs to determine someone was genuinely asleep as opposed to merely dozing or even faking. All totally unrelated to that guy in the upper floor of the inn who had been flaunting his star-sapphire ring, of of course. Imoen was just an academic spirit.

Setting a course for the main building of the inn, she whistled a little tune and made her way up the steps, stopping only briefly to nod at a man in robes who was studying her oddly closely. She was, after all, gorgeous. Who _wouldn't_ stare?

Of course, this particular man was not staring at Imoen's admittedly pretty face so much as her short-cut, reddish-brown hair.

"Hi, friend. I've not seen here before today," the man said, stepping into the girl's path. He was a plain man; not much taller than Imoen, with a short black beard and oddly long fingers on his hands. He wore black robes, with a green outline, and his eyes were two empty, heartless chips of ice that did not match his smile at _all_. He seemed to exude a light air of menace with every motion, despite being in most ways unremarkable. "May I ask what brings you the Friendly Arm?"

Imoen stepped gracefully around him, said "Nope!" and walked toward the door, totally ignoring the creepy guy.

The man in the robe was silent for several long seconds, before saying, "Red-haired girl of twenty. Ward of Candlekeep. Meets the description, unseasoned enough to be born in a library. And besides, you are a little _brat_."

"Eh...?" Imoen asked turning to face the man again.

His fingers were moving in an intricate pattern, a pale green-blue glow dancing between them as he muttered something under his breath. Imoen had lived in a magical library for half her life, and while she had not hung out around Gorion quite so much as Seffy, she knew a spell when she saw one. Her bow wasn't drawn and she had no arrows nocked, and her dagger was still in her damn pack. She hadn't thought she would need it, she wasn't supposed to _fight_. She was the brains of the operation, whenever she found an operation to be the brains of.

The man's chanting was reaching a high point, the mystical light in his hands glowing more brilliantly. Imoen was not terribly familiar with magical combat, but she suspected he was about to kill her.

So, acting mostly on instinct, she reached out her hand and pushed him down the steps.

It wasn't the most dignified of battle tactics. It didn't have a whole lot of flash or style, she would freely admit that. She didn't even have a good one-liner. But what she _did_ have was twenty or thirty solid stone steps, roughly hewn and very hard. The mage-assassin let out an undignified squawk as he tumbled down them, followed by a few very loud cracks as parts of him that were not as hard as stone impacted with stairs that were _exactly_ as hard as stone. He landed on the grass in a crumpled heap of cloth and oddly angled limbs, and he did not move.

Imoen gingerly walked down the stairs and poked him with her foot a few times. He did not move. Or appear to breathe.

 _So,_ Imoen thought. _Does this count as adventuring? What comes next, then? Do I loot him? Am I allowed to loot him if it was the middle of an inn? I think I should get his stuff, on account of him calling me a brat. Rude, that was._

"Miss...?" a guard asked, snapping her out of her reverie.

" _It wasn't me I didn't do it you have the wrong girl!"_ Imoen shrieked.

"No fears, miss. Old Tarnesh has... _had..._ a dark reputation, and even if he did not, Gregor saw his castings," the man said, gesturing to another guard. "You acted in self-defense, and could hardly be blamed for his point of attack being foolish."

"... Right. Because... it was all an accident!" Imoen said, a huge, guilty smile on her face as she lied through teeth.

 _Wait... it_ was _all an accident. Why do I sound guilty?_

"He asked who I was. Then he attacked me when I wouldn't answer. I don't know why," Imoen said, a bit more naturally. "I-I was just here to meet some friends. Creepy, huh?"

The man nodded, and smiled in a manner he clearly hoped was reassuring, though at the moment Imoen was hardly paying attention to him, her mind going back to run over the events in her head once more. 'Red-haired girl of twenty'. Technically, it fit her, but her hair, while tinged enough with crimson to count as red, was just as easily described as brown (though she'd occasionally pondered dying it pink, just to see the look on Puffgut's face). If someone was _really_ after her, why wouldn't they have made sure to give out a better description?

Candlekeep, however, had more than one ward. And Sephiria's hair was a shining, almost metallic red that could hardly be mistaken for any other color. She had assumed that the attackers were after Gorion, what with him being a hero and a wizard and old enough to have enemies and stuff. But people looking for the red-haired twenty-year-old _girl_ from Candlekeep...

Imoen knelt down by the body, sighing. "Weird. Why would anyone ever go after me? I'm just a totally normal and in no way odd girl. And alas, the heartless killer is himself dead, and can no longer answer any of my questions! Woe is me, woe is _me_! There shall be no comfort, alas. I am lost indeed!"

Gregor the guard knelt beside her, patting her on the shoulder. "Come inside, lass. We'll get you a hot meal and help you find your friends. Everything will be all right."

Discretely pocketing the scrolls she had slipped out of the man's robes, Imoen smiled up at the guard. "Why, I bet it will be."

* * *

 

Sephiria sighed, looking down at the shiny plates of the splint mail. "I can't afford this. It must be a hundred gold, at the least."

"Given that your health and wellness is now our concern, taking it out of party funds is more than tolerable. Your share of the first successful venture can go to paying for it, if you prefer," Acherai said.

"Assumin' we ever _have one,"_ Kagain grumbled. "Time is gold, and we haven't enough of either to be wastin' time armoring the whelp."

"Relax, dwarf. I've a lead on a solid mission that will make us back the cost of the armor fifty times over, and our dear little maiden-"

" _Please_ stop calling me such terms of endearment. I am in no way dear, nor yours," Sephiria said, taking the armor to the smith to finish her fitting and make payment.

"-shall be integral to it," Acherai finished, unfurling a bounty poster. "A murderer, believed to be haunting the forests to the southwest. The cleric Bassilus, wanted by the Church of Lathander. A bounty of five _thousand_ gold, a small fortune! The backbone of a future adventuring party, more than certainly."

"Don't much care fer the lightbringers. An' they don't care much for anyone what isn't all full of righteousness an' fluffy feelings," Kagain muttered, though the mention of 'five thousand gold' had brought some visible cheer to his face.

"Indeed they do not, which is why our dear paladin-to-be will be the one to claim the reward," Acherai whispered. "It's perfect. She has everything. Beauty, charm, an unflinching morality. All the things the masses _adore_. You see, my dear little mercenary friend, _being_ a hero is a harsh and pointless life that leads only to an early grave. But _appearing_ to be a hero is simple indeed."

He smiled, and Kagain was reminded of nothing so much as a snake about to strike. "Our darling little girl," he whispered, "will be the face of the group. People will know and love her for the hero she is, and enemies seeking her will, once her fame grows, find her quickly and die horribly as our own power grows to meet and exceed them. And meanwhile, _we_ will make sure her unflinching sense of goodness is aimed at the missions that give us the greatest profit. Is this acceptable, my little. Greedy. Friend?"

Kagain blinked a few times, before smiling wickedly. "Aye. Mayhaps yer not as hopeless as I'd thought, elf."

Sephiria walked back to them, her newly purchased armor shining and her hands shifting her sword belt again. "I am prepared to continue. Did Garrick secure us a room?"

"We assume such, but it's rather hard to be certain with him. On the one hand he did go to the Jovial Juggler, but on the other the man _is_ a bit pathetic. Kagain, if you don't mind checking to make sure the team pet didn't ruin our night?"

Sephiria sighed as Kagain walked off. "You shouldn't be so hard on him. He's not precisely wise, but he means well. At least, more well than the dwarf."

"There's no reason to _not_ be hard on him. He's a buffoon. Treating a buffoon brutally is one of painfully few ways to teach him the error of his ways."

"You treat me just fine. I know you're not that harsh to everyone."

"You're exceptional. Exceptional people should be treated exceptionally, and buffoons should be treated like buffoons," Acherai said with a shrug. "That is the way of the world. If someone is useful and performs well, then effort should be made to make them happy. If someone is an idiot, then efforts should be made to hone them into something useful. People need to be treated how they _deserve_ to be treated."

Sephiria sighed. "I know I'm not very worldly, but that seems cold to me."

"Is it that different from the code of Torm? If a man obeys the law, he is treated well. If he breaks it, he is punished," Acherai said.

"Exactly. If a man is loyal, brave, and true... like Garrick... then he should be judged and treated well. Even if he is lacking in other departments. It's the heart that counts more than anything."

Acherai blinked, before chuckling lightly. "Well. If you want to see him as brave and loyal, you're welcome to, I suppose. But frankly, I'm not certain it's accurate at all. Still, he may have succeeded at finding an inn room. Tomorrow, we head to our first _true_ quest. And while we seek out a dangerous murderer... a task even you can hardly disagree with!... a traveler heading north will accept a small fee to deliver a message for you, to let your father's friends know plans have changed. Have you objections, dear girl?"

Sephiria pondered it. "Don't call me 'dear'."

* * *

 

"That's definitely them," the pale man in the hood said, twisting a ring on his finger as he stared out the window of the Red Sheaf Inn at the small party walking past the inn out of Taerom Thunderhammer's smithy. "They never used her name, but she's wary of hunters and she matches the description."

"My god's will shines down on all who walk the killer's path. The Black Sun would not have guided us wrong in this matter," the woman seated in the corner of the room said softly, her eyes closed in meditation. A helmet and a wickedly spiked club of some dark, polished wood sat by her side.

"Woman creeps me out, Nimbul," the final inhabitant of the room, a red-bearded dwarf, whispered to the man at the window. "Killing a girl for money, that's just business. Cyricists... they get off on it."

"If Neira wants to sacrifice her share of the reward to Cyric, that's her business," Nimbul said softly. "She got us to within range of our target when simple hunting did nothing of the sort. And now, we know where they're going."

"Bassilus. Big name bounty for amateurs."

Nimbul shrugged. "The girl has a bounty of her own for a reason, Karlat, and her party seems skilled. But no worries... we follow them. We let them fight it out. Whichever side wins, we kill them and claim _both_ bounties. That is, if our resident lady of Cyric has no problem with the mad cleric's death? I believe he's part of the same 'team' you are, for lack of a better term."

Neira smiled, opening her hands to reveal an iron carving of a black sun surrounding a grinning skull in her palms. "The Black Sun is wise, my friends. If a man is too weak to prevent his own death, that man was too weak to deserve his life in the first place."

Karlat smiled. "Y'know, every once in awhile you death-worshipers do manage to make sense."

* * *

 

The soup was _awesome_.

Imoen gobbled it down like a woman starving, devouring chunks of meat and boiled vegetable alike without actually chewing on them. "Smmm mfmmffmf mmmmmfffmmm mmmmmm!" Imoen said cheerfully.

"Are we... _certain_ this is the girl, Khalid?" Jaheira asked doubtfully, watching the display.

"W-we can hardly claim otherwise d-dear. She m-matches the description, d-doesn't she? S-s-sort of."

The two adventurers had been, as they'd promised in their letter, waiting in the Inn for Gorion and his ward to arrive. What they had gotten was... well. Imoen.

"'S true!" Imoen said between bites, picking up a small loaf of bread. "'m from Candlekeep *CHOMP* 'n me n' Gorion were *MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH* jus' like fam'ly *SLUUUUUUUUUUUUURP*"

"You... were his ward, then?" Jaheira asked doubtfully. Truthfully it wasn't that the girl did not _completely_ fail to resemble the descriptions Gorion had given of her. She was the right age, fit and healthy, and... _somewhat_ possessed of the crimson mane they had been led to expect. Somehow, though, Jaheira had been led to expect someone possibly a bit taller.

"MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH SLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURP."

And more dignified. "Child, you have had your meal. We _must_ discuss the situation further. I do not know how much Gorion told you, but we were to take you in should anything happen to your guardian. We were his close friends, and well equipped to take up..."

"NOM CHOMP GULP."

"... your protection," Jaheira finished in distaste, looking at a chunk of carrot that had slipped from the girl's spoon to splatter on the table. "But I fear we must do it on the road, for we have responsibilities of our own to attend to."

Imoen, who was not even remotely Gorion's ward and _really_ had no business acting as such, but didn't wanna be kicked out on the road for saying, 'I'm not the girl you're looking for but I _swear_ I know her,' swallowed her latest mouthful and said, "Eeeeh? But nothin' personal, but I thought we'd kinda like... stay here."

"... Girl this is an _inn_. Nobody lives here. And more, I fear troubles stir to the south and Khalid and I have been asked by certain... associates of ours to investigate problems they are having. You are aware of the iron mines of Nashkel to the south?"

Imoen pondered it. Unlike Seffy, who's interactions with people tended to be offering to do them favors and shelling out claims of protection, while they slowly fell into that weird courtly-love thing people had with paladins, Imoen was an easygoing girl who thrived on small talk. Stories of the outside world were like sugar to her. "Um, as I recall, there's talk that the iron comin' from them is weaker than it should be? That's half the reason for the big shortage of late."

Jaheira nodded sharply, and Imoen suspected that was the closest she would get to approval. "Indeed. The supply of new iron into the region is weak and tainted, and bandits and highwaymen prowl the countryside stealing the metal still viable. As a result, iron, the lifesblood of the region, is in dangerously short supply."

"O-o-our employers," Khalid said, "W-wish us to look into the matter. W-we're acquainted with the mayor of Nashkel, you s-see. W-we can get into the mines and d-determine if foul play i-i-is involved."

Imoen's eyes widened. "Oooooh, so you're gonna be heroes! I can do that. When do we leave?"

"... You are rather more _enthusiastic_ than expected, child." Jaheira said, her tone indicating she was trying to contain an enormously disapproving speech for the sake of the clearly traumatized young woman.

"Well, Seffy is _totally_ crazy about doing hero stuff, she's gonna show up there," Imoen said cheerfully.

"... Excuse me?"

"Nothing," Imoen said. "Can I have another bowl of this? It's amazing stuff! The chefs are _so_ much better than they were at Candlek-"

Jaheira narrowed her eyes, and Imoen had the uncomfortable feeling that if she had been able to, she'd have set the younger girl on fire with her mind.

"On the other hand," Imoen said quickly, "Perhaps I should order something I can eat on the road instead."

"Better! We leave within the hour. We've daylight to burn yet, and I want to make a few hours journey before we set up camp," Jaheira said. "Finish your meal, I'll handle supplies. You'll need arrows and the like, and some armor would not be amiss. Nothing too heavy, I suspect? Leather should be fine. Khalid, stay with the girl."

"D-dear, mayhaps we should stay the night? T-the girl must be tired, and..."

Jaheira narrowed her eyes again.

"... a-and I am certain fresh air would d-d-do her a world of good."

Jaheira smiled. "You ever know my heart. I'll return soon."

As she left, Imoen and Khalid watched her head up to the counter and begin doing something at the proprietor, Bentley Mirrorshade, that could only be described as the bastard child of haggling and just shouting.

"Your wife is kinda scary, huh Mr. Khally?" Imoen said.

"I-in a good way, I have always thought," Khalid said diplomatically.

Jaheira had _amazing_ hearing.


	5. Chapter Four

"I have a question," Sephiria said as they marched through the wilderness, brushing aside a thornbush with her armored hand. "If this murderer is as foul as you claim, and has such a bounty, how is it that nobody has hunted him down before now?"

"Presumably because he keeps killing them," Acherai said. "The man is a cleric, if the bounty notice is accurate, and Cyric is said to favor madmen and murderers, of which he is both. His power is likely to be considerable."

Sephiria grimaced. "You didn't mention he was a Cyricist."

"I didn't think it would be a _problem_. You are a paladin, after all. Of Torm, no less! The Prince of Lies and your deity get along like... well, like Garrick and dignity."

"How _rude_!" Garrick murmured.

"Garrick, you should stand up for yourself more. Don't let him walk all over you," Sephiria said.

"Hm? Oh, no, no. He's actually quite better than my previous employer!" Garrick said. "For one, he has not tried to kill me yet. And for second, he is a _far_ more interesting story."

"Eh?"

"Oh, you're part of it too! Why, I may not be a terribly _good_ bard, but even I can spot the beginnings of a great tale from heroes in the making! Why, if I manage to not die and am able to write a proper ballad about it, I expect I shall be _very_ well-received in taverns up and down the Coast! And really, is that not what life is about?"

"... Free ale and lodgings?"

"Exactly!" Garrick said to Sephiria's increasingly perturbed expression as she continued to push forward through the brush.

"Told you so," Acherai whispered into her ear.

"Both of ya, shut it," Kagain muttered. "I think we're gettin' close."

"Hm? We've only been walking a few hours, how do you..."

"Because I don't hear any animals," the dwarf whispered harshly, motioning again for the group to quiet down. "And I _do_ smell something. Take a whiff."

Blinking in confusion, Acherai and Sephiria stopped and, in unison, inhaled deeply. Almost identical somber expressions clouded their faces immediately.

"Still distant, but..." Acherai began.

"Rot," Sephiria whispered. "And there's no wind, so it can't be too far away."

Acherai smiled. "I confess to a certain giddiness now that we're this close. This is where it all comes together for us!"

"Yeah, and if we get ate by zombies, it's where it all comes apart too," Kagain snapped. "Stay calm and stay quiet. No sayin' where the bastard is."

Sephiria nodded once, and drew her sword, the two-handed war-sword that was her last memento of Candlekeep. Not a fancy blade, and nothing magical about it, unlike the metal staff Acherai had been walking with or the battleax at Kagain's hip. But it _was_ a solid blade, familiar to her, and while it might not have been elaborate, it was perfectly forged, predated the iron crisis, and a half-dozen crushed training dummies over the year since she'd gotten it suggested it was bloody efficient at destroying things.

 _Torm, give me strength to strike in your name,_ she thought, sending a silent prayer to her god as she steeled her mind for her first true battle.

She wasn't sure of much, lately, but she felt that it could hardly be the wrong thing to do.

* * *

 

To the north, in the Friendly Arm Inn, a young halfling named Bennigan arrived with a message for the travelers Khalid and Jaheira, delivered from the ward of their friend Gorion.

Upon finding out they were no longer at the inn and had left no indicator of where they planned to go next, he shrugged, left the letter with the owner of the inn, and had a helping of the side of venison that the Mirrorshades had roasting in the kitchen with a flagon of ale. He then stayed the night before walking back home the next day, whistling a small tune to himself, to live the rest of his life in relative comfort with his close-knit family in Beregost.

What? Not _all_ contributions to a story can be impressive.

* * *

 

"So... Nashkel," Imoen said. "It's a nice place?"

"It... c-could be _worse._ " Khalid offered.

"It is a fair enough village, though the mines are a blight on the land. A cesspit that delves into the earth seeking her riches and gives nothing in return. Were it not for the fact that so many lives depend on the iron it produces, I would not cry to see it burned from the map," Jaheira said.

"... Is there anything you _do_ like, Jarrie?"

"I like the solitude of the deep forests. I like seeing animals roaming free, the balance and beauty of nature. A gentle sunny day, with naught to do but meditate on the grace of Silvanus and enjoy the company of my husband," Jaheira said, a rare warmth in her tone. It was ruined a bit when she continued, in the exact same tone, "Oh, and killing slavers."

"... … … what was that last one?"

"A despicable breed of person. So smug, so superior, so certain in their ability to steal forever the freedoms that are the right of all living things. It brings me deep-seated joy to take from them their vile empires, free their captives, and show them the collapse of everything I value before I smash in their disgusting skulls and leave them for the worms," Jaheira said, patting her quarterstaff almost fondly.

Imoen fell back a few steps to walk next to Khalid, who was bringing up the rear, and whispered, "Your. Wife. _Scares me_."

"J-Jaheira means well. S-she just tends to prefer nature to people," Khalid said warmly. Then, more softly, he whispered, "And s-sometimes she scares me too."

"If you two are finished conspiring against me," Jaheira said flatly, "we _have_ been marching half a day already. A meal would not be amiss."

"Ooooooh! Are you gonna teach me the simple and hearty meals of the wandering adventurer?" Imoen asked.

Jaheira reached into her pack and tossed Imoen a travel biscuit and a small canteen.

"... This isn't hearty," Imoen muttered, gnawing at the strangely rock-like bread as best she could, and sitting on a nearby log to take the load off her feet.

As she nibbled at a biscuit that she could only assume was made of sawdust and horror, she took the chance to look over the papers she had... erm, _borrowed_ from Tarnesh back at the inn. With Jaheira slavedriving her off to the south (And she hated slavers! The hypocrisy of some people!) she hadn't had much time to look at any of them, and she suspected they were, if not important, than at least _interesting._

The first one was about what she had been expecting... and afraid of. A description that matched Seffie pretty much dead-on... and matched Imoen herself tangentially, but she didn't so much care about that. The issue that worried her so much was that this was proof. Definitive and irrefutable. Someone... someone wanted Seffie dead. Seffie, who was basically the nicest person in the _world_. A bit stuffy maybe, but a total sweetheart who basically spent her days wandering around Candlekeep asking to do favors for people and had not beaten the tar out of Imoen nearly so often as she deserved. She was obedient, and hardworking, and always put other people before herself even when (in Imoen's expert opinion) it was a damn stupid thing to do.

Who the _Hells_ would put a bounty on a girl like that? And _why_? They were clearly serious about it, if they would go so far as killing Gorion to get at her. The bounty notice was for a kill only, no intent to take her alive. The closest thing Imoen had to a sister, and some... some _bastard_ who had never even met her wanted to kill her and didn't even give a reason why.

Well. That just wasn't gonna do.

Sephiria was still alive, she was sure of that. Since whoever had killed Gorion only wanted her dead, and hadn't rescinded this bounty, that meant she was at least still alive. And more... Imoen just thought she would _know_ if Sephiria was dead. It was a sister thing.

She still didn't know _where_ she was, of course. But she was the sort who would get into freelance heroism if you left her alone for ten minutes. And that meant Imoen's current path was the best she was going to find. Khalid and Jaheira would find her Seffie, and then she and Seffie would find whoever had killed Gorion and hurt them really, _really_ bad.

Y'know. In a family way.

* * *

 

"You know," Garrick said idly, "It occurs to me we don't have a healer."

"Shut up, Garrick," Acherai muttered.

"I just say this because there appears to be a _lot_ of zombies."

"Shut _up_ , Garrick."

"And I think our current party configuration was chosen on the assumption that we'd be, well, fighting _one man_. And not one man and his horde of the undead."

"Garrick!" Acherai whispered harshly. "Do you want me to use you as zombie bait?!"

"... No?"

"Then _shut your damn mouth!"_ he snapped, still not letting his tone rise above a harsh whisper.

The problem was, Garrick had a point for once. They _had_ come out here expecting to find one man. A dangerous cleric with ready spells, perhaps, but one man. And they _had_ found one man, it was just he was surrounded by at least thirty creatures that might have once _been_ men. Both rotting zombies and animated skeletons, the lowliest of undead perhaps, but... _thirty_ of them.

"We turn about. We call this one a waste and we turn about," Kagain said flatly. "We're not to be bringin' this one down."

"No!" Sephiria snapped. "We cannot... he made those out of _people! Innocent people_ that he's... waylaid and murdered! This man is an abomination! Torm would never approve us leaving him to continue his atrocities!"

"Really?" Garrick asked. "Well, luckily I don't really worship Torm, and I don't _think_ the other two do either... I mean, really, Elves and Dwarves tend to have their own gods, so."

"... Garrick. Stop helping," Sephiria murmured, admittedly starting to find it harder and harder to argue with Acherai when he treated the bard like an imbecile. "My point is... well... _I'm_ supposed to be the leader, aren't I? You said I was. We have to act like I would. And I would _never_ let a monster like this continue his work."

Acherai winced. "Yes, I suppose I did say that, but... well, I was a bit counting on us having a numerical advantage. Maybe we _should_ come back at some other point."

"When he has twice as many zombies?! He's only going to get stronger!" Sephiria snapped.

"Mother? Is that you?" Bassilus the mad cleric asked, his gaze drifting over toward the copse of trees the small adventuring band was hiding behind.

There was silence for several long seconds, before Acherai said, _"Talk to him._ "

Sephiria, eyes wide, said, "Um... yes, my son! It is I... your... mother!"

"Well, we're dead," Kagain said, almost cheerfully.

"Ah, mother! I've not seen you since the sacking of Zhentil Keep! I'd feared you had perished... Thurm here nearly did as well, and I'd heard so little of the family since I escaped!" Bassilus said, a huge smile on his face as he patted a zombie on the back as he continued to speak to, as far as they could tell, the tree that Sephiria was standing behind. "Come, join us! We were just telling tales of the old days, before the fall, before so many were... were... no, that's not right, we all escaped..."

Sephiria was, for a moment, overcome with pity for the poor creature. Cyricist and murderer he might have been, but he was also clearly sick in the head to believe these creatures were family lost in the infamous sacking of Zhentil Keep. "I... I..."

Acherai sighed. "Yes, my son!" he shouted out, reasoning that Basillus _probably_ was not lucid enough to tell one voice from another if he thought his zombies could talk to him. "I... have not seen you since Zhentil Keep. Erm, thank the gods we all got out alive!"

"Yup. Dead," Kagain continued.

Bassilus nodded, smiling, but a shade of doubt had come into his eyes as he continued to talk to the voices in his head. "Yes, yes, it... it was a true... miracle? Or... no. No, we... no. _No!_ You lie! They didn't escape, none of them! Only I... only I..."

Acherai smiled. "Only you escaped? When you fled and left them all to die, so you could replace them all with these mockeries? What a terrible son you were..."

"No! No, I... no..." Bassilus fell to his knees, sobbing, his eyes wide and streaming tears as his gaze tore around the clearing wildly, his undead falling around him in lifeless piles as the will behind them extinguished their false lives in his madness and grief.

"Well, I'll be damned," Kagain said appreciatively, hefting his axe. "You really might be just crazy enough to get us all out of this alive."

"I'm not crazy, I'm brilliant," Acherai drawled. "And, oh yes, before I forget: Kill him."

"Acherai, can we really just execute him? He is clearly unaware of his actions," Sephiria said. "And what he said... to flee from the death of his family..."

"Oh, gods above, you're _empathizing,_ " Acherai said with open astonishment. "Don't. This is not like you and your father, dear. This man is a priest of Cyric. God of, among other things, strife, madness, and _murder_. You know what that means, don't you?"

Sephiria sighed. "... Yes. He was a killer long before he lost his family. Even if you could argue him innocent of these deaths, he is hardly an innocent man." Standing, she drew her sword, walking over to the sobbing man, preparing to exact justice. She stopped beside him, and raised her blade, and closed her eyes. "Torm the true, patron of knights and servants of justice, guide my arm this day, and take the soul of this man to the fate he deserv-"

She was cut off, then, by the kneeling man slamming his golden warhammer into her stomach, a shock of agony running through her as the enchanted weapon sent arcs of lightning rolling through her metal armor. She was hurled backwards and slammed into the ground on her back, gasping to recover the wind that had been knocked out of her.

Bassilus looked down on her, smiling widely, his eyes wide and manic. "Mother! Don't worry. You'll be one of us soon, and then _everything_ will be okay."

The holy symbol of Cyric around his neck grew darker, the light around him dying, and he began to chant.

Acherai cursed under his breath, and said, " _Why did she stop to pray?!_ "

* * *

 

Jaheira nodded at Mayor Ghastkill's words. "As promised, Berrun. We will enter the mines tomorrow in the morning, and determine the cause of your issues."

Berrun Ghastkill, mayor of the mining town of Nashkell, the northernmost town in the nation of Amn, sighed. "My thanks, Jaheira. Between the captain of my guard going mad, and keeping order in the town, I simply don't have enough men to clear this out on my own. Made worse by the fact that what few guards I can _get_ to go into the mines at all are panicked by the endless yammering of the miners going on and on about 'demons'..."

Jaheira chuckled slightly. "If it helps, if a true tanar'ri would likely not constrain itself to a mineshaft. Whatever your problem might be, it is not a demon."

The mayor sighed and ran his hand through his graying hair, highlighting a scar on his scalp. "I know that, and you know that, but try getting some idiot farmer's son who's been booted up to the border guard in the worst town in the nation to understand. I do not have the cream of the crop to work with here, Jaheira... unless its curdled."

Jaheira chuckled again. She was not one prone to humor, but Ghastkill was an old soldier and companion of more than one adventure, the sort of person she let her guard down around more than others and tolerated with much less of her trademark temper. As opposed to...

"Guys, guys!" Imoen shouted, running up to the two. "You will _never guess_ what I found!"

Jaheira winced and tried not to scream. The girl meant well, she really did, but in the name of _Silvanus_ Imoen wore on her. It was hard to believe she was truly a ward of Gorion; she had none of his dignity, none of his subtle humor, none of his restraint.

She sighed, chastising herself for these uncharitable thoughts. Imoen was going through a very hard time, and Jaheira knew that she could be... _difficult._ Perhaps she was simply missing Gorion herself. She had not seen him in years, but Gorion was fondly remembered. Perhaps she was projecting her own sense of loss onto the poor girl...

"I recruited a new guy to help us!" Imoen said, waving at the man following her. He was an enormous man, easily two feet taller than the girl who came before him. He was also completely bald, had a pale blue tribal tattoo over his eye, and appeared to have a hamster on his head. "His name is Minsc! I found him standing around and he had a sword so I decided to have him join our team. Isn't he _awesome?!_ "

… of course, it was also possible that Imoen was just _horrible,_ Jaheira realized, as the red haze of fury fell across her vision.

"I _see_ ," Jaheira said through gritted teeth. "And rather than helping Khalid make reservations at the inn, as _you were asked to do_ , you instead chose to go about recruiting strangers into our fold. You, who are the _target of assassins,_ chose to recruit a _stranger_ to _sleep next to us_."

"Worry not!" the man proclaimed a bit more loudly than was technically needed. "Minsc is a force of justice and righteousness, not a force of smashing little girls! He is a noble warrior! He is a _titan_ of pleasantness! His sword is large and his heart is pure, and while his head is somewhat foggy he is guided by the wisdom of Boo!"

"I... I have _no_ idea what that you are talking about," Jaheira admitted, the red fury giving way to confusion more quickly than she'd have liked.

"The _wisdom_ ," Minsc repeated, picking up the hamster and holding it out to her, as if he expected her to be awed by it (and, in a sad kind of way, she was).

"See what I mean?" Imoen squealed. "He's got a giant sword _and_ a cute pet! And I'm sorry, but you and Khalid need to laugh more. This guy is _hilarious!_ "

"I... I..." Jaheira sighed. "I confess he does not strike me as being of malicious intent. And he _does_ look... athletic. He seems like one who can handle himself in battle, and it is possible an extra arm would be of value."

"Then small leathered woman is in luck, for Minsc has two arms, and each of them is so strong as to be worth two more! He shall strike down all your foes like a man with four arms, only without getting his arms tangled against each other!"

"... 'small leathered woman'?"

"It fits you, kinda?" Imoen said helpfully. "I mean, you're not really _small,_ but compared to him, who _isn't_ on the small side..."

"Stop helping, Imoen," Jaheira said in a long-suffering tone. "Tell me... Minsc, was it? What do you seek in return for this act? A share of the spoils, or do you act out of the goodness of your heart?"

Minsc sighed. "A tale of woe it is, and a tale of woe I shall tell! Minsc would indeed much like to help small leathered woman and small pink girl out of the goodness of his heart, for Minsc's heart has much goodness! But Minsc is cursed by fate to need the aid of strong swords for justice, for he faces a foe too large even for he!"

"It turns out his friend-" Imoen began.

"Witch."

"His friend-witch was kidnapped! I figured, he needs help, _we_ need help, everyone needs help! Makes sense, right?" Imoen asked.

"Minsc makes sense in all things," Minsc said.

Jaheira sighed. "Imoen. We may all die tomorrow. We may uncover information that demands we act on it immediately to save lives. We do _not_ have time to be taking on new quests, and even if we _did_ , you were both irresponsible and extremely foolish to take on new responsibilities without consulting the rest of the group!"

Imoen pouted tears filling her eyes. "But... b-but..."

Jaheira winced. "Oh, be silent. Just... just tell the man he must go."

"... But h-his... his friend..." Imoen said, a sob entering her tone. Her eyes got red and The sun appeared to grow a little dimmer.

"... … _Fine._ He can _stay_. But paying for his room comes from your share of any reward!"

Imoen made a little squealing sound not entirely unlike the large man's hamster, and ran off toward the inn.

* * *

 

Sephiria looked up at the face of death, struggling to get some kind of motion from her numb limbs as the cleric called to his loathsome god. Her fingers twitched madly, unable to grasp her sword, her legs shook, she found herself unable to stand. Crackling blue-black energy rippled between his fingers, and she had the sinking sensation she was going to join his 'family' in short order...

A crossbow bolt slammed home. It didn't slam home into _Bassilus_ , unfortunately, instead hitting the ground next to his feet while Garrick shouted, "Oh _dear_ ," but it was a distraction, if nothing else. The cleric looked up, his snarled cry to Cyric changing its tone, changing into a _demand_ for power. A sickening wave of dark energy blanketed the area, and though Sephiria was not even _in_ it she could feel it, the disgusting aura of the Unholy Blight, the power of Cyric...

And then Kagain, totally unharmed, charged out of the darkness and drove his horned helmet into the priest's gut. "That's it, then? I thought you were a _nasty_ one. Felt like a light breeze."

"Murderer... monster... slayer of children!" Basillus snarled, hefting his hammer. "You _killed my family!_ "

" _HA!_ Well, I'm going to kill you. Is that close enough?" Kagain chuckled, swinging his ax in. The cleric was oddly strong and armored, and his magical golden weapon was vastly superior to the simple steel axe the dwarf wielded. He was, however, at a major disadvantage.

He was _tall_.

Two warriors, both armored, both bearing shields and weapons of similar reach, would normally be rather evenly matched, all other things being equal. Kagain was more skilled, but Bassilus fought with a rage so deep it was nearly demonic. The two would likely have been equal indeed, had it not been for something that all dwarves had learned from a young age:

It was much easier to defend your _head_ than your _legs,_ and height and reach were only an advantage if you used them to keep an opponent _away_ from you.

The man swung his hammer down again and again, practically frothing at the mouth with fury... and Kagain's shield, held above his head, caught every blow, while the dwarf returned his attacks at the mains waist, knees, thighs. Too low for Bassilus to accurately bring his own shield into play, at least not while he was also trying to attack. The axe struck in again and again, hitting at the lighter armor of the cleric's legs, piercing the chain links and cutting into him, sending streams of blood rolling down them as he continued to hammer away. To all appearances it was a race against time... what would give out first, the dwarf's shield before the magic hammer, or the mad cleric's body?

The answer would be 'neither'.

Kagain was not a scholar, not a master of divine knowledge. He was a sellsword. And so, he did not spot the chant, the hissed prayer hidden in Bassilus's inhuman snarls and mad rants... at least not until the wave of energy rolled over him, and his body froze, his muscles held in place as firmly as if they had become stone.

The cleric smirked wickedly, his eyes filled with a familiarity that was somehow worse than simple madness as he looked on the dwarf struggling against the bonds of his magic, and murmured affectionately, "Oh, cousin Melvar, you always _were_ such a scamp. Don't worry, I know you're sick, but I shall help you feel better soon..." as he lifted his hammer high.

And with a sharp crack, he fell forward, his neck shifting at an odd and inhuman angle, his eyes going panicked and lost before he even hit the ground.

Acherai, his spell of invisibility dispelled by the action of striking the man's neck with his heavy metal staff, smiled wickedly. "Well. Not quite so seamless as I'd hoped for, but I'd say it went well enough in the end," stepping forward, he swung the staff down on the man's head several more times, to be safe; his attack had been perfect and taken the man totally by surprise, and he knew the neck was broken. Still, it was hard to predict how an injury like that could incapacitate a cleric. Best to make _certain_ he was dead.

"All right. Ladies, gentlemen? Are we all alive?" he asked. Sephiria twitched, continuing to work her way slowly back to a sitting position, and Kagain tried and failed to make his lips move in an answer, producing a kind of frustrated tic to the corner of his mouth. "Yes, then. Well, congratulations to us all, then! A dangerous madman brought low, a very, very nice bounty all ours, and it cost us little in the end save some healing potions and perhaps a new shield for our dwarven friend, if he has some issue using the late cleric's. A _fine_ day indeed!"

And then an ax, expertly sharpened and balanced for throwing, came flying down off of the ridge of rocks to their north, slamming into Acherai's shoulder and throwing him onto his back, staring up breathlessly into the sky, his mind unable to process what had just happened.

As blackness drew in around his vision, and the sounds of at least two warriors in armor charging at them filled his ears, his only thought was, _All right, I admit it, Garrick did have a point about needing to recruit a healer._

* * *

 

The Nashkel mines were dark, and cold, the entrance filled with filthy miners with no hope in their eyes, and the depths ringing with what Imoen could not help but notice sounded an awful lot like something growling.

"So," she said hopefully. "I don't suppose I can stay out and make sure no wolves follow us in, then? Because they are just an epidemic lately, and-"

With an annoyed sigh, Jaheira grabbed the girl's arm and dragged her into the darkness, Khalid and Minsc on either side of them, the former looking grim and sturdy in a way that nobody who saw him in the light of day would have imagined, and the latter smiling like he was about to go on a school field trip to see pretty horses.

In hidden alcoves and tunnels stretching through the mine, staring in on the main paths, many, many hungry eyes looked in on the four as they entered the darkness. The growls grew louder, and joining them came the clatter of weapons being readied, canine jaws drooling with hunger and bloodlust, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting adventurers...

And then Minsc thought he saw something that looked like it might have been unpleasant, and everything very quickly started to go wrong for _everyone_.


	6. Chapter Five

Minsc was not a subtle human being.

This is not to say he was bad. Indeed, he meant well at all times. It was just that his version of 'well' tended to be the loudest, most muscley, most mildly insane version of goodness imaginable. And so, when he heard the chittering of the monsters in the darkness of the mines, he reacted in the method he deemed most appropriate.

" _What is he doing?!"_ Jaheira snarled as the Rashemi burst into motion, his sword drawn and a ululating battle cry echoing from his lips. She had heard the odd growls as well, of course, and the absence of miners as they went lower. She had responded to this by keeping her staff ready, making sure to avoid blind corners, and subtly motioning for Khalid to take the lead with his shield at the ready. She had _not_ been motioning for anyone to charge blindly in screaming.

"... Helping?" Imoen said. Or asked. It wasn't entirely clear.

The twang of bowstrings filled the darkness of the tunnels, arrows flying through the flickering torchlight of the mine tunnels, and Jaheira cried out for her ally; both out of shock at his sudden endangerment of the group, and at the fact that, despite his obvious insanity, she really did not wish him to _die._ Be hurt somewhat, perhaps, but not die.

Minsc charged, the arrows slicing through the darkness towards him...

And missing him horribly.

Jaheira's cry of warning died on her lips as she watched in a kind of horrified fascination as the arrows, aimed to take by surprise a group proceeding slowly and cautiously, missed their target by a mile as the shocked archers released them too early, or froze up and released them too late to hit their mark. And then Minsc was in the tunnel with them and...

Well.

Minsc had charged into the darkness expecting gigantic horrors. Beasts such as dragons, wyverns, some kind of cave giant, possibly bears. Such, he reasoned, was the only sort of horror worthy of stopping him from going immediately to the rescue of his witch, and therefore it was also the sort of horror to be charged at blindly in hopes of surprising it before it got its bearings.

He was a little disappointed, then to find that the creatures waiting down the darkened tunnel to launch their ambush. They were tiny, barely up to Minsc's mighty waist, and looked as though someone had crossed together a very tiny man, a lizard, and a dog. Minsc, from the great tundra of Rasheman to the far east, had never seen their like before, and pondered the fact that perhaps running ahead of the group so very far had been a poor idea; small Imoen seemed quite wise, nearly as wise as Boo, and might be able to tell him what sort of beasts he now faced.

There were, however, six of them in the main tunnel and a few more down the smaller ones branching off it, and they all held bows or rusted swords, and those that did not stare in shock growled in defiance and charged. This was, generally, all the information Minsc needed.

Minsc was roughly three hundred pounds of muscle and metal, and carrying a sword that most people would have called too large to bring into a cramped space like a mineshaft. These people, however, lacked two things that Minsc brought into combat with him: a total lack of anything resembling human logic, and sufficient arm strength to not really _need_ the full range of his motion to hack a small doggie thing almost completely in half.

As he proceeded to demonstrate when he stepped directly into the small horde of yipping creatures, his arms held in close to his torso and the blade coming across in a horizontal chop that most fighters couldn't have brought much force behind... and which took the lead creature's head off.

Roaring his mighty rage, Minsc stomped over the corpse and kept going, yipping beasts turning and scrambling over each other in a desperate attempt to escape him.

* * *

 

Sephiria saw Acherai fall, and the sheer shock of it tore the last of the cobwebs from her mind.

She rolled, barely avoiding the axe that slammed into the soil where she had been lying only a second earlier, and her eyes scanned the outcroppings above them, seeking the source of the missiles. Kagain couldn't move and Acherai was wounded, which left her (and she was not at all sure her armor was entirely safe in the stomach area) and Garrick.

Garrick...um. Well. He did his best. But she wasn't quite sure he counted as backup. So for the moment, she was on her own, and...

There.

A man in dark clothing, a hood over his pale face. He was hard to focus her eyes on, his form blurred by some spell, but the weighted throwing hatchet in his hand was easy enough to see, and he had taken up a perfect position on the ridge above them, able to rain down projectiles with impunity. A cowardly tactic to be sure, but a painfully effective one.

 _And so now the question becomes,_ she thought, _how do I get up there and cut the coward down without giving him ample time to do the same to me?_

A shadow too short to be a grown man fell over her, and she said, "Kagain, good, you can move. We need to find a way atop that ridge, and..."

And then she noticed the shadow appeared to be raising a weapon over its head, and she reacted on pure instinct.

Without ever leaving her crouch, she spun, swinging her broadsword in a wide arc at what would have been waist height on a human, and was just below the neck on the dwarf who had snuck up on her. His shield was raised in time... prompting a scream as the wooden buckler shattered beneath the massive blow, showering his arm and face with splinters.

The dwarf hopped back from her, throwing his shattered shield away and slipping his morningstar into a two-handed grip, drops of blood flowing down his face and vanishing into a fiery red beard. "That was a mistake, lil' girl."

Sephiria raised an eyebrow. "Hardly so great a mistake as allowing your ambush to succeed, I should think."

"Nah, see, I'd have killed ya quick," the dwarf said flatly. "Clean. Professional. Now the Cyric bitch gets ya, and she'll make it last for _hours_."

And as if on cue, a woman wearing a holy symbol of Cyric stepped from the growth, a chant already on her lips and a mad light in her eyes.

 _Oh. Well. This could be bad..._ Sephiria thought as the woman's chant began to reach a crescendo, and the dwarf grimly smiled as he positioned himself between the young paladin and the danger...

* * *

 

"I feel kinda bad for the dog lizards," Imoen murmured as Minsc, forty feet ahead of the group down a dark tunnel, beat one of them to death with the limp body of another.

"K-kobolds, child," Khalid corrected her, stepping over a pool of blood. "L-less often seen than other of the hostile humanoids l-l-like goblins and Orcs, b-because they prefer the underground. B-but still quite dangerous."

A kobold head flew down the tunnel, landing at Imoen's feet. She squeaked in dismay and kicked it away.

"F-for a certain value of 'danger'," Khalid admitted.

"I feel like we should be doing something," Imoen said. "Helping."

"We are holding up the rear," Khalid pointed out. "Protecting his back."

"But all the...kobolds?...all the kobolds are in front of him and running away."

"Then we protect him," Jaheira snapped, "from whatever he inevitably encounters that is worse than kobolds."

"... You seem angry, Jaheira."

"I am not angry. I am irritated," Jaheira said. "You will know I am angry when I have blood on my staff and a corpse at my feet."

Imoen slowed her pace so Jaheira was further away from her, and whispered to Khalid, " _Why did you marry her?!"_

"Her s-social skills."

* * *

 

Minsc trampled a kobold, screaming his berserker rage, when things began to go wrong.

Though he was moving very quickly, he was a very large target in a very small space, and there were quite a lot more of the things than he had been expecting. In the small tunnels, where he was protected from their arrows by the bodies of their own allies, this was not such an issue.

Then he stepped out of yet another narrow tunnel to find a large, wide-open cavern featuring a narrow bridge and half a dozen of the things lined up on the other side, bows ready.

Minsc charged, because charging was what he did, but he had suddenly gone from an invincible juggernaut in close quarters to a target with very limited range of motion. One false step to either side would send him plummeting into the abyss of the old mineshafts.

The archer kobolds rained arrows on him, and even a poor shot could hit a huge target that could hardly even try to dodge. He swung his weapon madly, swatting away many of the arrows...and missing many more. A shaft sunk into his shoulder, sliced open a cheek, and still he charged, pain unknown to a raging berserker.

Then one slammed home into his knee, slipping between his greaves and mail tunic, and pain became less an issue than structure. He _wanted_ to attack, to lay waste to his foes as a good warrior should, but his leg simple could not hold his weight. And as the red mist faded from his vision to be replaced by blackness, he began to wonder as to the amount of blood he had lost...

 _I have let my largeness go to my head, I fear. Just like the time with the gnolls!_ Minsc chided himself. _Should I not be killed by arrows of death, I must remember to consult Boo before charging in the future._

 _"_ Squeak," Boo said in agreement.

Minsc closed his eyes and prepared for certain, or at least very likely, doom...

And heard the sound of arrows splintering against metal.

Minsc opened his eyes, seeing the smallish man who was married to the angry woman. The half-elf was kneeling in front of him, shield raised.

"Jaheira! Now!" he snapped, all trace of a stutter gone, as his wife finished her whispered prayer and released the spell. Tangling vines sprung from the bare dirt and rock of the tunnel, wrapping around the kobolds and sending the creatures into panic and confusion.

The druid stepped forward, a stone loaded into her sling, and said, "Minsc. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but if you ever do that again, we will leave you to the consequences."

"She doesn't mean that," Imoen said as she drew back her bowstring and took aim into the panicking creatures. "She's just snippy."

"Stop _helping,_ child."

* * *

 

A priestess of Cyric casting a deadly spell, and Sephiria blocked from her by a skilled killer. Above her, the man in black prepared another blade to hurl.

It would have made a wonderful story, Garrick mused, if he was not likely to die.

He had been left behind in the bushes when everyone else went out to fight, and these strange killers seemed to have not noticed them.

"Oh my, oh my. This seems as though I should perhaps flee. But I _do_ expect to be noticed if I try, and then I suspect I will be killed a bit. Perhaps I could sing an inspiring song?"

"I...b-GAWK!...I fail to see how singing would help," said a small and somewhat clucky voice from near his foot.

"Most do," Garrick said. "But the singing of a bard such as myself can have a certain magic about it which..."

He stopped.

He looked down.

The chicken looked up at him expectantly, and said, "A certain magic which...bawk, bawk...what?"

Garrick pondered this for a few moments, before reacting with his normal decorum and grace.

" _Possessed chicken!"_ he screamed, turning to run for his life from the obviously demonic bird. He made it about three steps before tripping on a root.

The crossbow fell from his hands.

And that was how Garrick saved the day.

* * *

 

Jaheira looked into the flickering torchlight where none should be; a small cavern carved into the mines and inhabited, deep in the territory of the kobolds.

"D-do you smell that, my dear?" Khalid asked her softly.

"Aye. Fresh air, and close by," she murmured. "Someone has dug a new tunnel from the surface into the mines, or reopened one long closed."

"And th-then there is this," her husband said, holding up a strange vial of thick green liquid, one of many they had found on the dead kobolds. "I p-poured a few drops on one of the swords those k-kobolds were using, and the blade began to rust almost i-instantly."

Jaheira sighed. "So, if we needed more proof this iron plague is engineered, we have it. But kobolds? They are hardly so ambitious, nor so gifted at alchemy and magecraft. This reeks of larger forces in play."

Khalid lowered his voice until even Jaheira had to struggle to hear him, and said, "Zhentarim?"

"They are certainly well funded enough, and more than vile enough," Jaheira whispered back, "Indeed, I would agree immediately, save I see no benefit for them in such an act. They need iron as much as anyone...more, given the amount of knives the murderous bastards buy. But ah, we sit and talk too long... Perhaps the best course of action at this point is to throw caution aside and press on? Find the puppet in yonder cave, and see where their strings lead us to. After we cut them, of course."

Khalid smiled and squeezed her hand. "The direct approach, as always. Ever my a-angel."

"Bah, you'll not make me blush so easily," she said with mock-ire. "A man married so long as you must work harder."

"A-and I will never stop," he swore, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Minsc, I-Imoen. We are ready to move on."

"And you will do so _quietly,"_ Jaheira snapped. "No charging madly, or giggling girlishly, or..."

"Setting off traps?" Imoen asked brightly.

"Aye, none of...wait, what?"

Smiling brightly, Imoen skipped past her and knelt down near the doorway, lightly brushing aside some dust to reveal a nearly invisible wire strung along the floor. Following it to the wall, she felt along the cracks in the stone for one that gave at her touch and removed the hidden panel, revealing the mechanism hidden inside. Delicately, she reached in and removed a small dart, sniffing it. "Ew. Puffguts has something like this for the kitchens, but it just shoots pepper clouds. This smells like something nasty. You wouldn't want it in your blood, anyway."

Jaheira's jaw was practically on the floor, and only Khalid's choked gasps of laughter stopped her from gaping for several straight minutes. "I...see. Well. That was...well done, Imoen. You..."

Imoen's grin was practically enough to light up the tunnel. "I'm growing on ya, huh?"

"... I would not go _that_ far."

"Fear not, mighty Jaheira! Minsc shall not grow on you. He has enough trouble finding armor that fits at the size he is now," Minsc said proudly.

Ignoring her husband's strangled chuckles, and very much blushing this time, Jaheira snarled, "Oh, let us just go face death already. It has more dignity."

"Finally, you speak the language of Minsc!"

 _Sweet Silvanus,_ Jaheira thought glumly, _I hope not._

* * *

 

When questioned on it later, Sephiria's account of things would go something like this.

She had swung her weapon in a wide horizontal arc at the dwarf's neck height, hoping to knock him aside so she could sprint past and deal with the cleric. This had failed miserably, as in midswing, her arm was struck by a thrown axe from the damn coward atop the ridge; it skipped off the plates of her armor, but the shock and impact ensured her strike landed with far less than the crushing force intended, and forced her to jump back as the dwarven mercenary launched a counter attack on her knees.

She saw the cleric's mad smile of triumph as dark power crackled between her fingers...

... And then she heard what sounded like a young girl screaming about a possessed chicken, and a crossbow bolt struck the woman directly in the neck, slipping between her helm and armor to bury itself in her jugular.

For a few long seconds, the battlefield was totally silent, save for a kind of soft gurgling as the priestess of Cyric tried to breathe and did nothing but suck blood into her lungs. After about twenty seconds of this, she fell forward limply.

Karlat shrugged and prepared to continue his attack on the girl, saying, "Bigger share for me."

Sephiria smiled coldly at this comment, saying, "Such disregard for an ally...whatever doubt I may have had, you have dispelled. You earn your own fate."

Karlat opened his mouth to mock the sentiment, only to be cut off second later when a gruff voice behind him said, "Not so bad, really. Seems a dwarf after me own heart," and he realized exactly what fate she had been talking about.

Eyes wide, the assassin spun... Too late. A golden hammer slammed home on his right shoulder with bone crushing force, and almost worse, a shock of lightning spread through his whole body from the point of impact, sending his muscles spasming madly. The arm fell uselessly to his side, and his vision blurred from the pain as he looked on Kagain's smirk.

Kagain could smirk well, when he tried. "Nice hammer. Too good fer a madman, even if he did have some good spells."

Karlat snarled, "Yer mother's a drow, ye sod." Even he knew it was more for the sake of saying _something,_ as things were going very wrong. His wound was crippling, the girl was running to the elf Nimbul had wounded, and... Speaking of Nimbul, he seemed to have made himself scarce as things turned against them.

Kagain shrugged, his expression suggesting he damn well knew just how deep the hole Karlat found himself in was. "Insults from the dead don't sting much."

He stepped forward, and brought enchanted hammer down hard. The other dwarf raised his own weapon to parry, and the two met...

Karlat had just enough time to think _Bloody iron crisis!_ before his weapon shattered at the impact and the golden hammer, lightning flowing along its surface, slammed home.

* * *

 

Minsc and Khalid led the way, the smaller warrior taking the front and staying low, letting his shield lead the way while allowing Minsc to attack over his head if needed. Jaheira stepped up behind them, her staff in hand and a spell ready in her mind, while Imoen took up the rear, an arrow nocked. They were ready for nearly anything.

Nearly.

"No! No, no, no!" the half-orc snapped, rising from his desk and setting down the quill which he had been writing a letter with. "It is not yet time! How am I to make progress if Tazok gives me so little time to work between inspections?! I have followed his orders to the letter!"

The stalwart group, prepared to face monsters and despair, stopped cold in open confusion at the sight of complaining middle-management. Imoen, as the team's professional liar, recovered first.

"I-indeed!" she snapped, putting on her best 'evil' voice, which admittedly sounded a little like an angry puppy, but the weird guy was so flustered she doubted he would notice. "Tazok is _very_ unhappy with your progress. Especially after all the dog-lizards..."

"Kobolds!" Jaheira whispered harshly.

"...Kobolds he has sent you. At _least_ double the kobolds that anyone _competent_ would need, I think." She arched an eyebrow in what she hoped was a sinister manner. "Perhaps we should simply take over. I am sure Tazok would prefer someone who could get results, matey."

" _Matey?_ " Jaheira hissed. "He is not a pirate!"

"Nay! Nay, I do as commanded!" the half-orc protested, his face visibly paling. "My results are good! Progress is slow, but nearly no iron leaves the mine untainted! Take my reports to Tazok, he will understand, I do the best anyone could with the resources he gives!"

Imoen gave an indignant huff, but said, "Very well. We will take your results, and any other documents pertaining to the operation. Tazok can judge for himself. If he is displeased, I suggest you be long gone when we return. And take your dog-lizards with you!"

" _Kobolds,"_ Jaheira snarled as the two women stepped past the groveling man to search his dimly lit desk.

"It worked, didn't it? Now we just take the paperwork and..." Imoen murmured.

" _Fools!_ Think you that Mulahey would demean himself to you?! Tazok will be more lenient when you do not survive to report!" the half-orc suddenly roared, raising a pendant hidden beneath his armor. "Arise, my minions!"

The soil of the mine floor split, hands of filthy bone tearing free as a dozen skeletons, eyes glowing with unearthly light, climbed free.

"... Jerk," Imoen grumbled.

* * *

 

Sephiria dropped to her knees beside Acherai, causing him to mutter in a deliriously, "Oh, no rush...just the one axe..."

"Hush. Your mouth is not needed at the moment," she murmured, assessing the wound. The axe had remained in the wound and stopped him from losing too much blood, but it was not good. "This is bad. Magic will be needed. I could attempt the Laying on of Hands..."

"'s what all the girls say..." Acherai mumbled. "Can't keep th' hands off."

"... First, I will be punching you for that comment later," Sephiria said bluntly. "Second, be _silent._ I have...not actually treated a wound this deep before. I must concentrate."

To Lay on Hands was a power possessed by most paladins; once per day and with a simple touch, they could channel the energy of their god in a pulse of healing energy. While it lacked the versatility of the spells granted to true clerics, it was quick and effortless...

And she had never actually used it to heal anything more severe than Imoen's stubbed toe.

"Lord Torm, patron of knights and all who serve the truth, if you would see fit to smile on your... _soon-to-be_ consecrated servant..."

"You aren't a real paladin yet?!" Acherai squeaked, panic outweighing pain for a second. "Do you know if this will work?"

"... I have faith."

"Oh, gods..."

 _I hope so,_ Sephiria thought desperately, slipping off her glove and shoving it into Acherai's mouth to keep him from biting through his tongue, and yanking the axe out of the wound with a single swift tug.

The elf let out a muffled scream as fresh blood poured from his open wound, and Sephiria clamped her hand down on it. Her skin glowed a pale blue, as it was supposed to, but...but...

The flow of blood slowed at her touch, but it did not _stop,_ and the elf grew more pale with each passing second.

She had failed. Oh gods she had failed and another death was on her head, just like Gorion and...

**_Blood._ **

**_In your veins, on your hands. A connection._ **

Sephiria softly exhaled, her eyes going blank. Something gold sparked deep within them, for less than a second.

**_Hunted and hated. The world seeks to destroy you. But what is within can save you. Take the power you are owed. In the blood, in the bone._ **

Acherai's eyes glazed over. The blood flowing from his wound seemed to darken, pooling around Sephiria's hand in a way that just _might_ have been unnatural...

Something shimmered, a nimbus of golden energy that was somehow not warm at all.

**_The path is chosen, and you WILL walk it._ **

Sephiria blinked in confusion, staring down at her bloody hand. The wound beneath it had closed completely, sparks of gold light fading from her fingertips...and Acherai's eyes.

The elf and woman stared into each other's eyes, breathing in perfect unison. For a long time, they sat there, the only sound in the universe their own breath and their own heartbeats.

"What...what was that...?" Acherai asked finally. "What did you _do...?"_

Sephiria shuddered and inched away from him, wiping her bloody hand on the grass. "I... I don't know..." she whispered, as if her denial could erase the last few minutes from history.

But she had done something... And she had heard something, on the edge of consciousness, a fading whisper.

**_Blood calls to blood._ **

**_And you WILL answer._ **


	7. Chapter Six

The two sat in silence, unable to say anything or even really _think_ of saying anything, when Acherai finally managed to tear his eyes from Sephiria and say, very slowly, "Is that a chicken?"

And just like that, the moment was broken. Time flowed again, and Sephiria (who was very much a virgin) realized with a start that she had just spent nearly five minutes gazing longingly into a man's eyes, with barely three inches between their faces. She reacted to this in the logical way.

"Gah!" she shrieked, and hit him in the face as hard as she could.

"Hahahaha-AWK!" the chicken laughed malevolently, as Acherai laid in the grass moaning with the impression he had just been kicked in the face by a large, furious horse. "I wanted to *cluck, cluck* do that for _ages._ Smug bastard. Bu-GAWK!"

Rubbing his jaw, the elf came shakily to his feet and growled, "Do I know you, sir chicken? Or have we merely found some very amusing dinner for this evening?"

"Be cautious. It may be possessed," Sephiria said.

In a murmur too low for any but her to hear, "I am more worried about _you_ on that front. Do your eyes often glow yellow, my dear?"

Sephiria paled in shock. " _My..._ but your eyes were the ones that..."

Acherai arched an eyebrow. "Really? Interesting. I wonder..." he shook his head. "No. No, now isn't the time. Someone kill this chicken, then we need to move."

"In a bit," Kagain said. "Fine eatin' on a chicken, but finer can be bought with assassin's gold."

"Leave the bodies!" Acherai snapped, interrupting the looting. "The leader escaped. We need to catch him, now, before his trail goes cold."

Sephiria blinked. "How do you know the one on the ridge was the leader?"

Acherai smirked. "Because he was the only one smart enough to make sure he had an escape route if things went badly. Any evidence or information about the client will be with him, I'm sure of it. Kagain, take point and head up the ridge. We _need_ to catch him. Alive if possible."

"Ba-gawk!"

"And someone kill the damn chicken already. It can't be that hard. Just grab and twist."

"Acherai-buck, buck-it is _me._ Melicamp! I...had a small accident, and...BA-GAWK!...well, you can work it out," the chicken snapped. "I...*cluck* could… use a hand. If you don't mind."

Sephiria fought to avoid a smirk. "You...know this chicken, then?"

Acherai blinked. "Apparently. We served for a time under the same instructor. Don't worry, you can still kill him. Trust me, he will not be missed, least of all by me."

The chicken screeched in panic and waddled over to hide behind Sephiria's leg. "R-reward! If you were to kindly take me back to our master, I will be sure *cluck* to reward you! I merely wish to be returned to my human form, and you will never see me again."

Sephiria smiled, looking at Acherai without even bothering to speak her thoughts.

"You," Acherai growled, "are very lucky you are pretty. Stuff the chicken in a pack and let's _move!"_

* * *

 

Being an adventurer, Imoen decided, was a terrible thing to be.

The problem she had now, really, was that if one was going to be fighting skeletons, a bow was a damn inefficient way to do it. The enemy was really mostly a bunch of empty space partially filled up by something without any soft bits, when you got down to it. And while she was hardly a pro at this adventuring stuff, she _had_ worked out that arrows really worked their best when they went into the soft bits.

Jaheira, swinging around a big old stick, was actually doing a wonderful job of keeping them back, and Minsc's sword was heavy enough he could basically use it as a giant metal club. Khalid, however, seemed to be having a similar problem to herself in that his one-handed longsword was too light for this kind of work; for every blow that broke bone, there were four that skipped off harmlessly.

And of course Mulahey (Whom Imoen was now _firmly_ convinced was a _jerk_ ) was hiding in the back, chanting madly, and slowly raising more and more undead from the cavern floor. The individual skeletons were weak, perhaps, but there were at least twenty of them now and the cleric was insistent on adding to that number.

Imoen tried to help, she really did. But it seemed the only target she could _do_ anything to was the half-orc, and he had rather thoughtlessly positioned a small army between them. She wasn't a _bad_ shot, but she was hardly the Grand Archer of Candlekeep (though she resolved to start telling people she was. It might lead to free meals somehow). She had a dagger, but...well. It was a dagger. She didn't know if a skeleton even had a back to stab, technically. Maybe work it between some vertebrae?

"Excuse me? Is someone dying out there again?" croaked a tired, pained, and yet somehow bored voice from around the corner, deeper in the caves. "If so, please keep it down. The chains make it hard enough to sleep without all the clanging and screaming."

Imoen, blinking in confusion, left behind the battle (what? She hadn't really been contributing anyway) and turned the corner into a small side cavern.

"Oooooh! An elf!" she said cheerfully.

The elf, who was a skinny thing, even shorter than Imoen herself and probably less muscular, sighed. "Quite so. Granted, most people would have noticed that I am chained to the wall first. Or the obvious signs of torture and starvation. But I suppose 'oooooh an elf' was the best quality of rescue I could hope for."

Imoen smiled. "Well, I could always not rescue you, if you prefer. I understand if you wanna wait for someone of 'higher quality'."

"Oh sweet Sehanine, a comedian," the elf muttered. "Very well. My apologies, young lady. I am Xan, a Greycloak of the elven city of Evereska, sent to investigate these mines for signs of foul play. As you may have guessed, I found some."

Imoen nodded sagely. "Dog lizards."

"... Why not. In any event, I should consider it a personal favor if you would most kindly postpone my inevitable doom by undoing these shackles?" A human skull chose this moment to roll into the cave and settle near Imoen's feet. "Before whatever is out _there_ comes in _here,_ if possible."

"You sure?" Imoen asked. "It is kinda dangerous out there. And you seem..."

She paused, and searched her mind for a better word than 'pathetic.'

"... Pathetic," she finished, not finding it.

Xan sighed. "Harsh, but sadly fair. I fear my power would turn the tide little enough. Though having my hands freed would leave me access to my magics once again, and my Moonblade is close at hand, I am certain hundreds of kobolds await, and..."

"Actually, we killed all those," Imoen said, cheerfully removing her lock-picking kit from her pouch and going to work. The shackles were custom, large, heavy clasps that covered his entire hands and held them immobile, but the locks were almost embarassingly basic. She had the first one off before Xan even realized she was working at it. "It is mostly one jerk with a lot of skeletons. You think you can help with that?"

Xan sighed, rubbing his wrists in a manner suggesting he considered Imoen giving him exactly what he had asked for to be a nuisance somehow. "Well, I _suppose._ "

* * *

 

Sephiria moved through the wilderness as quietly as one could while wearing mail, and wondered if they were on a fool's errand.

The fact was, the killer had every advantage. He was alone, he wore only light gear for easy travel, and, he did not have a chicken attracting predators to him with disturbing frequency. Apparently Melicamp was delicious, because every wolf, gibberling, and wild dog west of Beregost seemed to want to eat him, and Seph was growing weary. The man was, as far as could be told from his contradictory ramblings, a criminal anyway; perhaps letting Kagain eat him would have been the better course of action.

Almost instantly she felt a surge of shame at the thought, piercing even her bone-deep fatigue. _I cannot believe I would even consider such a thing. Condemning a man to death for thievery?! I... I must be more tired than I thought. That is all._

It wasn't all, of course. She knew better than anyone the doubts that had begun plaguing her since the night of her flight from Candlekeep...despite Acherai's reassurances to the contrary, she was very much beginning to feel this group's moral compass was not pointing in the right direction. The elf was pleasant enough, even charming in his own way. But when pressed, he showed a streak of greed and blasé disregard for others that truly worried her. And Kagain, of course, was much the same, save that rather than being a streak, greed and amorality seemed to be literally his entire personality. Garrick was the closest thing to decent among the three men, and she was not at all sure this was not simply because he hadn't yet figured _out_ how to be evil.

And yet, she had not abandoned them. Indeed, as now, she found herself slipping occasionally into the same thought patterns as her amoral associates. Not out of malice or avarice, perhaps, but did doing evil things out of fear make them less evil? She did not want to die, and she was a sheltered girl with little concept of surviving in the real world, much less withstanding what was obviously a coordinated attempt to end her life. Was compromising her morals for the purpose of her own survival wrong?

Gorion probably would have said so. But he was gone, and he had left her alone in a world that did not run on the black and white morals she had held to all her life.

She gazed at the dried blood under her fingernails, and recalled the feel of Acherai's heartbeat under her palm, the strange magnetism she had felt in his gaze, the sense of something enormous and powerful flowing through her to heal his wound where her power granted by faith had been insufficient.

Nothing romantic, gods no. She was worldly enough to spot that the elf desired her, but he had hardly made serious advances and she would not have accepted them. He made her distinctly uncomfortable. But at the same time, she had to admit there was...something. A connection. Something in him that called to something in her, and vice versa.

Did she have any _right_ to be a paladin? Was this decay of morality not merely weakness and the loss of innocence, but a sign of something horribly wrong with her? Could this darkness be the natural state of her being, suppressed by the kindness and simplicity of her upbringing?

 _It was a power of healing. Wherever it may have come from, could such a gift be truly evil?_ She wondered.

 _Of course it could. Evil gods can grant their clerics spells of healing as easily as goodly ones._ Her cynical side answered quickly.

_I did not ask or pray for it._

_You did not have to. It came from something already within you._

_Something I did not know was there. I did not use it intentionally, and did so for a good purpose. Can something be_ inherently _evil? Beyond all reach or concept of goodness simply by existing?_

 _Don't I wish I knew,_ she thought with a sad sigh. Philosophical implications aside, it was a power that had saved Acherai's life. She might not have known its origins, but she could avoid using it when she had any other choice, and ensure when used it was only for selfless purposes.

She hoped that was enough. The world was murky enough without fearing she was a monster already.

* * *

 

Mulahey smiled madly as the invaders began to lose ground against his powers.

The cleric had been genuinely worried for a time. Tazok's lackeys had been well-armed, coated in blood, and one of them had apparently been a pirate. But he was wearing then down, now. His minions had them pressed to the wall, and his magic bolstered the ranks of the undead, the grace of Cyric rendering the simple skeletons more powerful and regenerating their damage. Soon, now, all three of them would be...

Wait.

Three?

Mulahey was not the sharpest sword in the armory, but he could count to four. One of the attackers had slipped away. He opened his mouth to shout for his minions to strike out down the tunnels and seek her out before she released the elven spy he had captured...

And no sound came out.

He pounded at his chest, as if hoping to dislodge his voice; if he was magically silenced, then he was in a _lot_ of trouble. But the truth became apparent quickly enough...not only could he not hear his own words or gasps, but the crunch of bone under metal, the shouts of the intruders, none of it. He was not silenced, he was _deafened._

Around the blind curve, in the darkness he had peeked out of to cast his spell, Xan nodded. "As you can see, the cleric's powers are largely neutralized. While many dismiss the powers of Enchantment because their specialization requires abandoning the more... _explosive_ schools of magic, they can easily turn the tide of a hopeless battle. Of course this merely means I am free to pursue even _more_ hopeless battles. Perhaps I should have taken the fireball option after all..."

Imoen blinked. "You have like, _no_ friends, huh?"

"It is true, most prefer not to socialize with me."

"Gee, I wonder why."

"I don't. It is a blessing that saves me the pain of mourning when our uncaring world inevitably destroys them."

"... Just keep magicking, please."

* * *

 

"The trail ends here. He is nearby," Acherai murmured. "If the damn chicken clucks again, kill it. We have one shot at this."

"The chicken is a person," Sephiria whispered, crouching next to him as he studied the faint footprints. "And I worry. The assassin is alone and travelling light. How did we catch him so quickly?"

Acherai smirked. "You _can_ learn. This is a trap. The bounty on you must be enormous, my dear, because he has decided taking another shot at you is worth four to one odds."

Sephiria sighed. "I would like to know _why_ someone wants me dead so badly..."

"Perhaps it has something to do with the way your eyes glow and you can heal wounds with your touch?" Acherai murmured, lowering his voice to ensure the others didn't hear him.

"If that is the case," she whispered back a little harshly, "Perhaps they should be after you too. It was touching _your_ blood that made everything go...wrong. Your eyes changed too. Whatever...whatever _thing_ I might be, you're the same."

"I know. Exciting, isn't it?" he said with a small smirk. "You have just been the most amazing clue for me. A week with you and I know more than I did for the last eighteen years."

"What are y-"

"All right, team!" Acherai said, standing up. "We need to look around, I think. Split up. Stay in pairs, of course, and be wary. Kagain and Garrick look north, our illustrious leader and I shall head south. Leave the chicken here."

"B-but *cluck* if there are wolves about..."

"Then I am sure you will be delicious. March, troops!"

The team split up with appropriate grumbling to begin combing the woods for the assassin, as Melicamp hid inside a fallen log.

From less than twenty feet away, safely hidden under the spell of a potion of Invisibility he had brought for just such an occasion, Nimbul smiled and proceeded to silently head south after his target, another of his favored throwing hatchets in his hand. Had anyone been able to see the weapon, the thin coating of a foul-smelling black gel along the edge would have been _very_ attention-grabbing. Obvious poisons were only a problem, he always said, if you had to _trick_ someone into taking them.

Acherai followed the grumbling Sephiria into the woods, and tried very hard to hide his smile.

He had lived on the streets of Scornubel for nearly two decades. You didn't survive that long without knowing how to turn a trap around.

* * *

 

Jaheira spun, her staff slamming a skeleton into the cavern wall and crushing its skull between iron-shod wood and rough stone.

She was not sure what had happened. The undead had been swarming them, pushing them back so firmly she had no time to even chant a prayer between strikes. Yet suddenly, their assault had slackened, the will guiding them losing cohesion as the priest began to spout gibberish and claw at his ears.

On the edge of her hearing, a murmured arcane spell reached her sensitive ears over the din of battle...and the priest began grasping at his eyes, screaming half-coherent raving about going blind.

Her blood going cold, Jaheira turned to look down the side tunnel. Imoen waved at her cheerfully, standing next to an emaciated and disheveled elf who was moving his fingers in the intricate gestures of a wizard's casting.

Jaheira sighed, fighting the urge to rub her temples against the encroaching migraine. Blessed Silvanus, the girl had _run down a random tunnel and found a friendly mage._ It was like she went out of her way to destroy everything Jaheira knew about logic and replace it with her own personal brand of madness.

... _Still,_ she thought as she watched the undead horde slacken and fall out of the determined assault, their master no longer guiding them, _one can hardly argue that the girl gets results._

 _"Khalid! Some altitude would be a help!"_ she snapped, slamming aside a creature and sprinting toward her husband. Without a word, Khalid shoved back hard against the skeletons pressing him, the undead puppets too disoriented to resist, and fell to his knees. He raised his shield above his head, and Jaheira jumped onto it just as he stood, propelling her.

She thanked Mulahey for choosing a cave with a high ceiling for his lair, or this would not have worked. So as she sailed over the skeletons, directly toward the priest in question, she pondered the best way to express this gratitude.

She settled, in the end, for bringing her weapon down on the flailing man's head with enough force to crack the iron-coated oak of her quarterstaff, splitting his skull like a ripe melon.

Jaheira had an unusual definition of gratitude.

* * *

 

Acherai smiled at Sephiria, and said, "A lovely day, is it not?"

The young paladin glanced about warily, murmuring, "I thought we were trying to be quiet. What if he hears you?"

The elf chuckled. "If he has not heard your footsteps, trust me, the man is deaf. Besides, I don't truly expect to find him. He is almost certainly long gone, halfway to the Gate if he keeps in the direction he was heading."

Sephiria blinked. "Then...we split up to search..."

"Perhaps I fancied a walk in the woods with a lovely young lady? Without a grumpy Dwarf and a buffoon ruining the atmosphere, of course."

"... Please explain, and quickly, why I should not punch you again."

"I can give you a reason," the elf purred, and Sephiria flushed openly as he leaned in, painfully close to her ear, and she readied herself to drive a knee into his midsection with enough force to break him in half...

When he whispered, "Pretend I said something absolutely scandalous and horribly offensive. _Explode_ at me. As loudly as you can."

Her eyes widened. "What are y-"

"He is right behind us. I am sure of it. This walk has been to lure him to a point in the trees where I can be reasonably sure of where. If he hears me start to cast a spell, he will get away. Now scream at me." Then, almost as an afterthought, he reached and traced a finger down the length of her neck. "Ammunition."

Sephiria blinked, her entire essence freezing at the tingling of skin against skin as that...unnatural spark, however briefly, leapt between them. Cool, and enticing, and absolutely _wrong._ As if, behind his touch, there was another set of fingers _under_ her skin trying to push her forward, a voice other than his at her ear whispering promises she could not _quite_ hear, but she knew that something inside desperately wanted her to...

 _Well._ At least acting offended would not be hard, even if the disgust she felt was mostly for these bizarre sensations that had burrowed into her soul.

"You sick, amoral, pervert!" she roared, jumping a step back from the elf and putting on her best expression of outrage. "You assume that just because the assassin has eluded us I will simply let you bed me in the woods like some common whore?! You are lucky I don't kill you on the spot!"

Acherai winced, and turned his head aside...but she saw his lips were moving almost imperceptibly, and his hand was shifting slowly through a series of intricate gestures. She fought to hide a smile, and thought, _You know, I rather like this plan!_

 _"And further!_ " she roared, doing her best impression of Gorion the time she and Imoen had accidentally shattered the Cormyran pottery in Ulraunt's chambers. "Your choice of a party has been _intensely_ questionable. Garrick is, despite his generally kind demeanor, _extremely limited_ in his actual combat value. And Kagain. _Kagain._ It would take me literally hours to list everything I find problematic about Kagain's companionship. The man is clearly an amoral mercenary of the _worst_ sort, and yet you not merely allow him to remain, but keep him deep in your counsel! And do not think I have not noticed that. I am not some naive child!"

Technically she was a naive adult, she knew, so this was accurate. Still, she saw Acherai roll his eyes over his murmured spell casting. _Irritant,_ she thought. "Stop _smirking_ at me. I am, by your own admission, the leader of this group. And I am _not_ amused by your constant decision making without my input, nor by your blatant lechery! You will-"

And then Acherai shifted, throwing a handful of something that looked like nothing so much as powdered gemstones, a fine sand that glimmered brilliantly in the sunlight as it flew. Sephiria squeaked in surprise at the sudden motion... but not _nearly_ so much as she did when the Glitterdust spell impacted in the seemingly empty space between two thick patches of thorny brush, the glimmering motes forming the outline of a lightly built man, grasping at his eyes as he cried out in shock.

Acherai smiled. "You don't make it as a thief without picking up an instinct for when you're being followed. Now if you could be a dear and break his hands?"

"I-"

"Magic! Break his hands before spells are cast! And gods above if you stop to _pray_ again I will..."

In a refreshing change, however, Sephiria was in motion before the sentence was even finished. She was a large, strong girl, and she didn't need a sword out to break fingers… but she had it out and ready anyway. _Maybe she can learn,_ Acherai thought in amusement.

Nimbul was not a direct fighter. He was a rogue, someone who struck from the shadows with poison, or magic, or basically anything other than walking directly up and getting the tar beaten out of him by a gigantic amazon woman.

But he also, unlike Karlat and Neira, knew who he was working for, who had put the bounty out on this young girl. Above and beyond the substantial reward, he knew failure or, worse, being taken alive were simply not options.

The elf's spell had mostly blinded him, glimmering sparkles dancing behind his eyelids and burning his eyes, making anything further away from his face than his own hands turn into a barely visible blur. Still, it wasn't hard to spot the fact that one large, silvery blur with a red blur on top of it coming his way. His axes were balanced for throwing, but they made a valid melee weapon as well, and with the poison still on the edge, he only needed a scratch…

He slid under the descending blade like a wraith, taking advantage of his perceived helplessness, his weapon slashing upwards, hoping to hit a soft spot in her armor, certain he could at least manage this one strike…

And then he screamed in pain as her descending blade shifted almost impossibly, the blurriness of it becoming a razor-sharp line of light as she intercepted his attack. On the _shaft_ of the axe.

More specifically, where his hand was.

The poisoned weapon flew from his grip, and it took two of his fingers with it.

The assassin cursed, falling backward, trying only his best to get away from the rampaging silver titan he could barely perceive. He could follow her moves well enough when she was this close to him, but she was faster than him, stronger than him, and surprisingly good with that damn sword. The weapon slashed across his shoulder, sending a bright red spray that even his blind eyes could make out, but he held in his screams, reaching into his pouch as he tumbled back. He had more than one potion that might prove useful, but he needed to get the damn thing out, drink it, or…

He saw the orange bottle in his hand that marked an Oil of Explosion.

Not ideal, but it would do. He threw the bottle over the girl's head, to land between her and the elf, and dove for his life.

* * *

 

Oh Gods, it _hurt_.

Acherai had never been set on fire before. He was surprised to find that mostly, he felt _cold_. Nerve endings died, making feeling pain impossible in the sections struck hardest by the explosion.

But the parts _around_ those deepest burns. The pain was…

He fell, not even feeling the impact as he landed on his back. He could hardly see. Barely breathe. He didn't even have enough clarity of thought to curse his own _stupidity_ for falling for such a simple ruse. All he could do was stare up at the sky, blinking the tears from his eyes, as his charred skin cracked, oozing…

**_Blood._ **

Sephiria, thrown forward by blast, scrabbled to her feet, her eyes wide. Her back was burning, the same armor that had protected her from the worst of the Oil of Explosion also superheated and tearing into her body. And yet, she could barely feel it over a sudden chill that ran through her mind, a pulse that ran through her blood like a heartbeat, only from a heart that was somehow _outside_ her body…

Acherai rose to his feet, rising bonelessly from the charred and blackened grass. His face was hideously burned, but his eyes…

She saw the golden glow in them, far brighter than it had been when she had healed his wounds. His blood, soaked under her fingernails and into the cracks of her skin, seemed suddenly very, very cold.

**_Blood calls to blood. Again, and again, and again._ **

**_Born in darkness, living in darkness. Do not run, do not question. Murder is the calling of your soul, what your born for. There is no higher purpose for you than this most holy of darkness._ **

**_And if you fear this… then let the calling of your blood lead by example._ **

Acherai tilted his head to one side, his eyes glowing coldly, and something golden lit in Sephiria's in response. But he did not see it. He saw only Nimbul, still coated in magic hiding blurring his form… and saw the man, a hardened killer who could barely _see_ , staring at him with undisguised fear.

He didn't smile. There wasn't enough active thought in the elf's mind for him to be happy about anything. But on some level, if he could put it into words, he would call the fear in the man's foggy eyes something like satisfying. He raised a hand, and clenched it into a fist.

Nimbul did not scream. There wasn't time. His open wounds, his eyes, and his mouth all exploded in a shimmering white mist. The gleaming energy flowed across the clearing, past the horrified young paladin, to melt into Acherai's hideously burned palm.

And as she watched, the burns on his face and hands went from a sickening, oozing black, to a more simple angry red. And for a brief moment, Sephiria felt an intense sense of approval, only it _wasn't her approving…_

And then the moment passed. Acherai fell to his knees, gasping for air. And the assassin…

He fell to his knees as well. But Sephiria suspected he would not be needing air any time soon.

"Search… search…" Acherai gasped, stopping briefly to gag at blood in his throat. "Search his… body. For information. Signs. Anything. Wanted to take him alive…"

Sephiria did not move, merely cast her gaze suspiciously on the wounded elf. Finally, she said, very quietly, "What _are_ you?"

Acherai narrowed his eyes, his breath still coming in ragged gasps, before he managed to say, "I could ask you… the same thing. Couldn't I?"

"I healed a wound. You…" she looked down on the corpse of the assassin.

"I saved our lives. In a different way. Now check his body," Acherai growled. "I… I need to think."

Sephiria stood up, her body still steaming slightly and her expression still suggesting a great deal of distrust… but it wasn't like there was anything else to be done.

Acherai closed his eyes, and shuddered.

Something formless and dark, coiled in his chest, felt coldly satisfied.

* * *

 

Imoen looked down on what was left of Mulahey's head, and winced. "Jaheira. You maybe take this all a little too seriously."

"The man was seeking to kill us, child. In fact to kill us all, and with a horde of the undead. You would perhaps wish I should invited him calmly to tea?" Jaheira asked, poring through the chests and containers that surrounded the desk in Mulahey's makeshift study.

"… Well, I wouldn't mind some tea, if you-"

"Rhetorical question, child. Rhetorical," Jaheira muttered. Fortunately, Mulahey had been, in addition to a paranoid murderer, a very hands-on administrator. There were at least a dozen letters, requisition forms to request additional slaves and weaponry, samples of the iron poison, all the evidence she would need to confirm with Berrun as to the source of his troubles. But there was more she sought. The half-orc had spoken of a Tazok, and this name was on more than one of the documents he had saved. This, she knew, would be important, and soon.

She suspected that Tazok himself, whoever he might have been, would have gutted the priest like a fish for keeping such incriminating evidence. She supposed this would be a good way for him to claim a posthumous revenge against the employer who had put him in this place.

Somehow, she would have to find the will to continue despite this knowledge.

" _My servant Mulahey,"_ she murmured, reading aloud with the most recent letter, _"it appears your mining operations do not go so smoothly. How could you have been so foolish as to allow your kobolds to murder the miners…"_

"Oh," Imoen said brightly. "So maybe this Tazok guy is nice!"

"… _I will not send the kobolds you have requested, as I need all the forces I possess to stop the flow of iron into the region. With this note, I have sent more of the iron poison you require…"_ Jaheira continued, skipping down a few lines.

"… Or not!"

"… and here. The next link in the chain," Jaheira said, giving the final line in the note a grim smile. "Tazok has set up a go-between for Mulahey to reach him. Tranzig, in Beregost. Even better, this Tranzig is apparently to wait for Mulahey to make first contact, so he will not come here to investigate! We need merely to find him in Feldpost's Inn, and…"

Minsc cleared his throat.

Jaheira winced. "Ah. Yes. That."

"It is not that Minsc does not wish to rush to do battle with the forces of evil!" Minsc said quickly. "In fact, Minsc wishes to do little else! But alas, Dynaheir…"

Jaheira sighed. "I am loathe to risk this trail going cold. But this fortress you have described is… is not so far out of our way, and a bargain _is_ a bargain. You have aided us, and we shall aid you. We return to Nashkell to rest and resupply, then on to find this witch you are so fond of."

"And really," Imoen said with a bright smile, "what are the odds of something happening to this Tranzig in the next two days?"

* * *

 

Sephiria handed the note to Acherai, being careful not to touch his skin as she did. "He had little on him. Some gold, some simple weaponry, a little food and drink. Nothing of interest that I saw beyond this letter."

Acherai looked over the letter, and smiled, followed by a wince as the expression tugged at burn tissue. "Ha. I thought he was a professional, but this is a childish mistake. It's the assassination order, and not just a basic bounty notice. It has a contact name. We're lucky this wasn't destroyed or too soaked in blood."

"He didn't have much blood on him," Sephrira said softly, "when he died, after all."

Acherai narrowed his eyes, but ignored the obvious accusation in her tone. "Maybe he was just dumber than he looked, or maybe he wanted some proof for his flunkies that he had a confirmed contract in place. Either way, we know who he was supposed to collect his fee from after he brought you down…Tranzig. An agent staying at Feldpost's Inn in Beregost.

"Well, I know where _we're_ going next."


	8. Chapter Seven

"Do we _really_ have time for this?" Imoen asked thoughtfully, looking over the dryad they had met in the wilds, pleading with them to save her endangered tree. "I mean, she seems nice, but we _promised_ to save Minsc's witch, you know."

Jaheira whirled on her, her eyes fairly _glowing_ with wrath. "No. No, child, _no._ You do not criticize me. Not now, not _ever,_ on the subject of _wasting time. Not_ after you started a fight with those wealthy Amnish hunters just because they were rude..."

"Which got me this awesome armor!" Imoen countered, gesturing at the gleaming leather armor, studded in gold and obviously enchanted, that one of the (admittedly _very_ rude) hunters had been wearing. "And I don't see Khalid complaining about his shiny new sword."

"... _And_ stopping to help that child look for his dog, which turned out to be a _demon_ looking for his _hellhound..."_

 _"_ Which, in my defense, seemed _really_ unlikely at the time!" Imoen said defensively.

"... _and_ tried to give away all our gold to, and I quote, 'Zax, the fastest dart-thrower in the west!" Jaheira finished.

"... Okay, yeah, that one was my bad," Imoen admitted. "I got nervous. I mean, what if he _had_ been the fastest dart-thrower in the west?"

"Then he would have thrown darts at us,"Jaheira said coldly. "And we would have killed him because thrown darts are a largely inferior combat weapon and we outnumbered he and his partner five to two, with magical support."

"... That's what happened anyway."

"Yes. I know. Do you see my point?" Jaheira asked.

"... That maybe trying to give him all our money was not a good decision?"

"Aaaand?"

"Aaaaand since I have wasted our time on stupid, pointless things...I shouldn't complain about a druid wanting to help save nature?" Imoen asked. "Because that is what druids do?"

"You see? You _can_ learn," Jaheira said approvingly. She turned back to the distressed (and at this point mildly confused) dryad who had sought their aid, promising the nature spirit their aid once again.

"Sorry, Minsc," Imoen said. "I know that you're worried by these delays...and most of them are my fault..."

The giant warrior smiled and patted her gently on the back, knocking the wind out of her. "Worry not, little Imoen! Fair Dynaheir is strong and clever, and shall almost certainly be fine for a few minutes extra. And besides, what sort of warrior would not aid a lost child seeking his puppy?! Boo's heart cried out for him!"

"He was a demon, you recall," Xan said.

"Boo has a _very big_ heart for such a small creature," Minsc said proudly. "Look upon him, and feel the compassion that flows from every whisker!" he bellowed, holding the hamster up to the elf for inspection as Imoen coughed.

"I would really rather-"

"Look upon him! _Feel_ the wisdom and kindness!" Minsc demanded.

"Squeak," Boo said.

"... ... I was better off dying in the cave, then?" Xan asked of nobody in particular.

Jaheira sighed. "Lady of the forest, I...apologize. Believe me when I say that what they lack in personality, they make up for in effectiveness. Please, lead us to your tree."

The dryad blinked. "No longer entirely certain am I that I _wish_ for their help, lady druid. My oak in danger from ruffians may be, but I fear yon madmen may only make the issue worse..."

Jaheira winced. "Yes, well. That reaction is perfectly natural, but I assure you, unfounded."

"M-mostly."

"Khalid, my love, you are _not helping._ "

Gods above, this had to be the most pathetic adventure of all time.

* * *

 

Kagain stomped onto the animated skeleton's neck, crushing the vertebrae as he ripped the skull free with his bare hands. "Gods below," he muttered, bone dust billowing around him. "This has gotta be the most pathetic adventure of all time."

"I try to avoid agreeing with the dwarf too often, my dear. Sends the wrong message, upsets my elven kin, all that," Acherai murmured. "But he _does_ have a point, bless his greedy little soul."

"You _promised,"_ Sephiria said firmly. "And besides, I am the leader. And the chicken is _your_ friend, not mine!"

"And yet, when Master Thalantyr offered us precisely no reward for an undead skull to _maybe_ restore him," Acherai countered, "I quite plainly stated we should leave the chicken and go to find Tranzig."

"I could hardly leave an innocent man to such a fate."

"He isn't _innocent,_ he did it to himself!"

"Even so, he hardly deserved a lifetime as an animal. Particularly not an edible one," Sephiria said firmly. "The assassin's letters suggested Tranzig will be in Beregost until they met to exchange coin, and finding a skull barely took us two hours."

"Which _does_ seem odd." Garrick kind of poked the shattered skeleton with his toe. "I wonder why so many of them were walking around?"

Acherai rolled his eyes. "Why, it is as though a famous and dangerous necromancer-cleric lived directly south of here less than a day's travel."

"Well...yes. But he is dead now. Shouldn't his skeletons be dead too?"

The elf shrugged. "Magic does not always behave logically, particularly not when granted by the gods. Cyric in particular is not the sort to bother with sanity, especially when being insane leads to more killer monsters in the world." He paused. "That was actually a very logical question, Garrick. I'm impressed. Keep this up and I may grow to not loathe you."

"An' if ye all shut up. An' help me fix the chicken fer the goodie two shoes. So we can go back ta town and collect _the damn bounty we came out here for,"_ Kagain snarled, "then maybe I won't go crazy and smash ye all to death."

"Grumpy," Acherai said with a smirk. "The gold isn't going anywhere. And besides, that new hammer you're waving around it probably worth as much as the share of gold you're getting anyway, so I would say you won this little field trip."

"... Wait. Wait, wait!" Garrick said. "Why does only _he_ get any magic items?! We all nearly died, so I think we should all get something."

Sephiria blinked in confusion. "Garrick, what are you talking about. I got this helmet from the fallen priestess, which allows me to see in the dark as an elf or dwarf might." She pointed to her new headgear.

"And I got these boots from the leader, which aid me in avoiding projectiles," Acherai added, pointing to the brown leather boots, small runes trimmed around their soles. "And you got...ummm..."

"... We did save him something, did we not?" Sephiria asked, having the good grace to sound embarrassed.

"I don't think there was anything else," Acherai said. "Huh...well, Garrick, you don't get anything. Sorry."

"HA!" Kagain said, showing his deep sympathy for his comrade.

Garrick pouted. Yes, pouted. "This seems _unfair._ "

"Well… perhaps Thalantyr will give us some kind of magical reward for saving his apprentice?" Sephiria said earnestly. "Whatever he does give to us, you can definitely have it."

"Speak for yourself," Acherai said with a grin that was only _partially_ mocking. "He is a mage, after all. I'm willing to bet that whatever we get, it will _definitely_ be the best fit on me."

**_One hour later…_ **

"Five hundred," Acherai murmured in annoyance, piling the final gold coin on the table before the severe-looking wizard Thalantyr.

"Which just about covers the cost of the scrolls you stole," the old man said, his almost childish smirk making him appear nearly ten years younger, which still left him looking about a thousand years old in Acherai's opinion. "And since you were so kind as to help me out with the Melicamp situation, I will be kind enough to reward you for your aid in the ritual by not turning you into a chicken yourself."

"Normally I'd be mocking you," Melicamp said cheerfully, "but I'm just so happy to not have feathers anymore."

"How come _he_ doesn't have to pay? I just stole a few scrolls. He took magical bracers _and_ destroyed them," Acherai growled, trying his best to refrain from punching his former fellow apprentice in the face, and trying even harder to not do the same to Sephiria, who was smiling at him in a manner he would have called wicked if he had seen it on anyone other than a teenage paladin.

"And he will suffer, I assure you," Thalantyr said, casting a sidelong glance at the young man, who had the good grace to look terrified. "I've agreed to look after him again, due to what I can only assume is senility setting in. Rest assured that his apprenticeship shall make the Abyss seem positively charming."

"Erk," Melicamp said.

"As for the rest of you, I'd ask you to leave, but it is nightfall. And since I am certain your antics have riled up the wildlife for miles around and you _did_ provide me a new sale," the old man said with a smirk, "I suppose you may stay the night on the grounds of High Hedge, within the boundaries of my wards. You'll need to provide your own food and drink. I offer you a night of safety, not a full service inn. And if you wish to leave, by all means, do so and do not return."

"Ah, yes, the famed Thalantyr charm," Acherai said with a sigh. "Well. We saved a chicken and lost a chunk of money, for no reward. Thank you so much to our illustrious leader."

Sephiria smiled. "Are you trying to shame me with the knowledge that I saved an innocent man and made you pay for a crime you committed?"

"… Dammit, I _was._ I forgot that doesn't work with you."

" _HA!_ " Kagain said, helpfully.

"What are _you_ laughing about? You hate generosity and justice and all that."

"Aye, but it's funny watching ya sputter about over yer own plans going wrong," the dwarf said cheerfully. "Bard! Quit bein' a moron and help me set up the tents an' bedrolls."

"I'm still a bit sore that I never got a magical reward like all of you," Garrick murmured as he followed the dwarf obediently outside. "But I suppose that I have the magic of music, so that will suffice until I can get some actually magical magic."

"Do you ever have the urge to simply punch that man in the face?" Acherai asked Sephiria as they watched the two go. "I often get that urge."

"Not recently," Sephiria said, "but this new interest in treasure he's picking up has him reminding me of you, so I'm sure I'll develop it eventually."

"You are going to be making my life much harder, aren't you?"

"Only if I do Torm's will properly."

* * *

 

"N-now, gentlemen," Khalid said, "I am certain that we can solve this problem fairly and p-peacefully. Please, t-tell us what you seek?"

"This here tree's bigger 'n others," said one of the two men, who looked like a man and a particularly stupid cow had gotten married, and then the cow had cheated on the man and had a baby with another, even more stupid cow, and the resulting cow had just been oddly humanoid. His name was Caldo, and against all odds, he was the smart one. "So, there must be treasure inside."

"Huh?" the other man said. His name was Krumm. And that told you about all you needed to know about him.

"So's we're gonna chop it down. So's to get the treasure."

"Can you perhaps… n-not do that?" Khalid asked. "It is merely that the tree is the home to a dryad, who is quite put off at the thought of you…well. M-murdering her."

"Huh?" Krumm said.

"Sorry, ain't happenin'. Big trees mean big treasure, as our pa always used ta say afore he got eaten by a cow," Caldo said firmly.

"… E-eaten by a…?" Khalid repeated, hoping he had heard _something_ wrong in that sentence.

"So this is my life now, then?" Xan asked nobody in particular, his tone somewhere between disbelief and despair. "Sweet Sehanine, remind that the next time I'm kidnapped and tortured by evil priests, I should just give up and accept death."

"The next time you're…" Imoen began.

"Imoen, please stop helping."

Khalid sighed. "Jaheira d-dear, we s-seem to have hit an impasse in n-negotiations. Perhaps you should try? You are often more gifted at…f-forceful debate."

Jaheira stepped forward. "You. Imbecile."

"Huh?" Krumm said.

"The other one."

"Huh?" Caldo said.

"… Charming. I speak with the authority of nature when I say this, buffoon. If you lay so much as a finger upon this wonder of the world, I will gut you like a trout. Am I understood?"

"Huh?" Krumm said.

" _That_ sounded like a threat," Caldo said, after a few seconds to ponder the statement.

"Be cautious, friend Jaheira," Minsc whispered loudly. "This foe is cunning! Already he has discovered your hostility toward him!"

"Huh?" Krumm asked.

Jaheira did not reply, precisely. She just began to shake. It was not terribly cold, so it seemed unlikely that the weather was getting to her; and of course, she was never one to show a great deal of fear. Khalid, who knew his wife very well and suspected that, for some reason, she was merely filled to the brim with unspeakable fury that would shortly explode like a wildfire, took several steps away from her and said a small prayer for the souls of the unfortunate morons who had so called down her wrath.

"So," Caldo said, "If'n y'all would go away, we're getting to the cuttin' of that tree now. And ain't no treasure fer y-"

He had _probably_ been about to say 'you,' or potentionally something like 'ya' or 'y'all'. However, what he _actually_ said was 'the sound of Jaheira's staff slamming very hard into a human skull.'

Well.

He didn't _say_ that, but that general sort of sound most definitely came from the area of his head.

* * *

 

Sephiria realized, of course, that walking away from the party in the middle of the night, as they slept, was not the best idea in the world. She had been the target of no less than five assassins in the last week, she shouldn't be alone in a strange place. But she needed time to think, and besides, she needed practice using her new helmet. Infravision was… odd, to say the least, everything around her, trees and animals and swirls in the air, all visible clear as day, but all in shades of red and yellow, like the forest was not merely lit to her eyes, but actually ablaze.

The grim thought almost made her laugh. It suited the mood, she supposed.

This last day had been complicated for the young paladin. She had felt something inside her that she couldn't explain, something dark and wrong that acted against everything she had ever believed to be right. And for a time, she wondered if that somehow changed who she was. If something outside her control could change her, affect her morality.

But the events with Melicamp had changed things. She had saved a man, with no expectation of gain for herself. Merely to save him. And it had _felt right._ No inner darkness had turned against her, forced her off that path.

There was something… off about her. She couldn't deny that anymore. But whatever it was, however out of her control it might be, it couldn't control _her_ either. She was still her own person, for the moment.

And that meant so was Acherai, and that worried her.

It wasn't that he was a bad person, exactly. It was that he wasn't a good one. He tried to humor her often enough, and he didn't seem quite as absolutely mercenary as Kagain, but he had made it clear enough that he was more interested in his own benefit than in helping the innocent.

She could trust herself to resist darker temptation, inner demons. But whatever that force within her might have been, Acherai had it too. And she was not at _all_ sure she could trust him.

She sighed. "Well," she said to nobody in particular, "perhaps I can serve as a conscience to him, if nothing else. It's not as if I have anything else to do with my time, at the moment, unless I happen to luck onto a valuable antique book to go talk to Imoen."

"Grrrrrrrrr…" said a reply from behind her.

She winced, spinning on the sound, sword in hand. "Or I am eaten by a gnoll. How charming."

There were three of them, and she cursed herself for being so caught up in her thoughts that she had not heard them sooner, because they were hardly stealthy. Like kobolds, they held some canine features mixed with a humanoid body, but the similarities ended there; while a kobold was a scrawny thing that a decently built human could end with a good kick, gnolls tended toward the huge. The three approaching her now were each easily a foot taller than her, and the halberds they carried, while a bit rusted and dull, still looked very capable of killing her horribly.

She charged them, head on, and unlike just a few days ago, she did it with a plan in mind other than righteous smiting. She had always been a strong girl, and always been a natural with a sword, but the events of the last few days had shown her just how _unready_ she had been for real combat. Most notably, the advantages to be gained from ensuring the battleground favored you.

The three gnolls had come through a copse of trees, and they were taller than her, carrying longer weapons. They would come to regret this, deeply.

The lead gnoll snarled and stabbed forward at her chest, and she caught the strike, turning the weapon to the side… and directly into a tree. The creature yipped like an angry hound as its blade was lodged into the soft wood, stuck in deep and at an angle that made yanking it out awkward at best. Its comrades tried to lunge past it, but the thing was thrashing madly to get the weapon freed, and they had to step off to the sides to get a clear strike at the human they had thought to be easy prey…

Sephiria lunged once, straight for the throat, and by the time the two flanking gnolls had cleared their path through the brush to her, they were the only two left. The first to reach her snarled its fury, and she prepared to parry… when it proved to her that while she might be improving, and quickly, she still had much to learn.

The thing threw aside its spear, leaving her parrying at thin air, and lunged for her throat with only the yellowed, wickedly sharp fangs in its own muzzle. With a start, Sephiria fell backwards, the thing's stinking weight pressing down on her, its fangs ripping at her face and hair.

Gods bless that helmet. Above and beyond letting her see the gnolls even in the darkness, she was firmly aware that she might well have gotten her face bitten off by now if she hadn't been wearing it.

She slammed her gauntleted fist into the thing's mouth, letting it break its fangs on the heavy splint gloves as it gnawed in futility. Blood and slobber flowed around her gauntlet, and she tried her hardest to stay calm because she knew that second one was coming up too, and she needed to get her sword arm free from under the thrashing bulk of this vile thing…

The second gnoll raised high its weapon, apparently preparing to chop through its own comrade to get to her. She found that offensive on several levels, but at the moment mostly the fact that she was fairly sure it could _do_ that. She slammed her forehead into the muzzle of the creature biting at her, breaking its nose with a sickening crunch. The thing yipped, rearing back in pained instinct, trying to get off the thing that had hurt it so, struggling to breath through the blood… which was the exact wrong thing to do. Her arm free, she altered the trajectory of her blade and lunged, running the creature through and rolling forward to pin it to the earth.

And not coincidentally, to get out of the path of the descending halberd of its comrade. She felt the weapon slice the air behind her, heard it impact the ground, and the growls of the gnoll as it snarled in frustration. But she knew, also, that her sword was well and truly pinned, fallen into the same trap she had lured the enemy into. She dove for one of the discarded halberds, although she was hardly skilled with it, rationalizing that _any_ weapon would be better than none. She whirled, her newly claimed (and _very_ filthy, ugh) polearm at the ready…

And blinked in confusion.

The final creature stood, its weapon pulled free from the soil. But rather than lunging at her, or even simply growling in challenge, it stood stock-still, as if it were a statue. For a moment, wondered if perhaps Acherai had followed her, if this was some spell of his; and then the thing tipped forward, falling flat on its face, and she saw the black-shafted arrow sticking out of the back of its skull.

"My apologies," a voice said from the shadows. It was soft-spoken, yet still somehow harsh, as if the speaker was unused to actually saying words. "I heard the sounds of battle from some distance away. It took a moment to reach you...though it seems you needed little help. Are you injured?"

Sephiria threw down the rusted halberd, glad she hadn't had to try her luck with the clumsy thing, and took off her helmet to wipe the sweat from her brow and shake her hair out. She nodded in the direction of the new arrival as she began working her sword out of the ground. "A few scratches, but nothing severe. I can heal them myself, when I've had time to rest, and bandages will suffice until morning. My thanks for your aid, stranger."

"Kivan, of Shilmista," the source of the voice said, stepping into view, the pale moonlight illuminating his features beneath a plain brown hood, and Sephiria blinked in surprise.

He was an elf, which she had already not been expecting. All the elves she had met, even Acherai, had a certain...otherworldly grace to them. As if their every move was a dance, their every word a song, and other races simply could not hear the music. They were beautiful, in a way, but also eldritch and oddly insubstantial, like they did not quite exist in the same world as humans.

Kivan, as he introduced himself, was about as musical and insubstantial as a jagged rock at the bottom of a cliff. He was as tall as Sephiria, and nearly as broad in the arms and shoulders, unusually large for any elf. And of course, his voice, the more she heard it, had a definite rasping quality to it that left it less 'lyrical' and more like he was speaking through a mouthful of gravel. His gear, further, was plain and serviceable; worn leather armor, a simple wooden spear strapped across his back, and the massive longbow in his hands. All appeared to be of human make, well-used, and oddly rugged for something an elf would carry.

And, she noticed, both weapons were very large. If this Kivan told her that he was out here hunting bears, she would not be shocked. Of course, he might also be hunting _people,_ so...

"I am a traveler and adventurer, most recently out of Beregost," she replied to his introduction, all technically true, but the most she felt comfortable sharing.

The elf smiled slightly at her reticence. "A traveler who does not give her name is one who has something to hide..." he paused, looking down at the bodies of the gnolls, and admitted, "...or, admittedly, one who is being hunted. Which are you?"

After a brief pause, she admitted, "... Hunted. By the same group that killed my father."

Pain flashed behind Kivan's eyes, visible to her even in the dim light. "Then you have my sympathy. These are dark days, and many have such tales of loss to tell. I recommend you return to your group and stay with them, for numbers are certainly safer. But first, I must ask: the group who attacked you. Were they, perhaps, members of the Black Talon company? Or the Chill, perhaps? They sometimes employ gnolls, were these three vermin connected to them in any way?"

Sephiria fought to hide her surprise. The elf's gruff tone had gone from what sounded like honest pity to a barely contained, icy rage she was honestly a bit unnerved by. "I… no. Or at least, I do not know for certain. Who are these groups?"

"The 'bandit' attacks that have plagued the region. They are not performed by bandits at all, but by members of these two organizations," Kivan said flatly, a snarl of anger audible even under the normal rumble of his voice. "They are mercenary companies, attacking caravans and travelers to collect iron because they are being paid to do so. I know not their employer, but it matters not. They need to be stopped, and I have… personal reasons to seek their destruction. That is all you need to know, at the moment."

Well. _That_ was news to her. Despite the odd circumstances and the elf's obviously dark mood, she began to feel a certain elation at the notion. Even as she had feared for the future of the group, an obvious solution had fallen into her lap. The iron crisis that gripped the region had killed or ruined the lives of at least hundreds of people, probably even more. Stopping a group exacerbating it was clearly a good act, a clear White in the shades of grey that had made up her life of late. And best of all, it was not as if Acherai… or even Kagain, as vile as he was!...could argue with the merits of fixing the economy of the region in which they lived and did business.

And if, during this quest, she took the chance to whisper in Acherai's ear on occasion, show him the value of acting in such a way, the simple joy and satisfaction that were to be found in protecting the innocent and helping the helpless, well, that was a very nice bonus indeed. If it was at all possible to change his outlook, she needed to do it. He was not precisely a friend, but he _was_ a comrade-in-arms, and she was aware she would very likely be dead if not for him. Letting his soul be overtaken by this shared presence that infected them both was not something she could, in good conscience, do. If she could resist it, then so could he; she merely needed to show him how.

"Sir Kivan," she said brightly. "Allow me to re-introduce myself. I am Sephiria, a paladin of the god Torm, and an adventurer most interested in the quest you have outlined. If you seek aid in your battle against these brigands, then I am pleased to offer my sword, and the swords and spells of my allies as well."

Kivan arched an eyebrow. "A paladin? That explains your skill, for certain, but can you be sure the rest of your party will not object? I have no reward to offer save my services in your own quests, and many would not find that enough."

Sephiria smiled. "You are fortunate, then, that our own quest at the moment should not be long-lived, and will take us no further than Beregost. We need merely to turn in a small item for the bounty on a criminal we detained, and to find an individual we believe may be connected to the… the loss of my father. It should take little enough time once we find this 'Tranzig,' though I fear that Acherai and Kagain might be less than merciful in their efforts to extract information from him."

Kivan laughed bitterly at that. "A paladin indeed. Only someone like that would speak of mercy for the man who killed her father."

Sephiria sighed. "I… I'm not sure. On the one hand, yes, I… want them to pay. More than almost anything. But on the other, I wonder if that is the right thing for me _to_ want. I've been having doubts, lately, but… I think that maybe, more than ever, my morals need to guide me. And that may mean making harder choices than usual."

Kivan smiled, but there was more sadness than anything in his eyes. "Then you have my envy, child, as well as my pity. I fear that someday… you will find those views far too hard to uphold, but for now, I wish I could hold as tightly to my code as you do."

"Well," Sephiria said lightly, horribly uncomfortable and seeking something that might help lighten the mood, "this Tranzig character appears to be little more than a catspaw in any event. Perhaps when we find the 'Tazok' that he reports to, my temper will fail me, but until th-"

She was cut off, then, by Kivan's hand clamping down on her shoulder with enough force she felt it even through her armor. " _What did you say?!_ " he snarled, his eyes wide with a manic fury, and… she noticed with a great deal of shock and not a small amount of fear, as she looked at him more closely than she liked, he had a jagged scar across his throat, and trailing down below the collar of his undershirt.

His voice had not sounded 'elven' to her because, quite clearly, his vocal cords had been damaged when someone had slit his throat.

"You… your neck…" she whispered.

"Was slashed open, and I was left to die," he hissed, "by the same monster that killed the only person I have ever loved, and ruined my life. He tortured my wife to death while I watched. While he _forced_ me to watch. For hours. For pleasure. And then, when he was done, he slit my throat personally, and threw me into a cold ditch by the side of the road, next to what was _left_ of the love of my life.

"And his name was _Tazok._ And you hunt him?" Kivan finished, his voice low, and cold, and full of more malice than Sephiria had ever heard.

She shuddered, but nodded. "We… are, yes. We don't know for certain, but… his is the name we have."

"Then know that I will gladly serve you with my life, with two conditions," Kivan said, very softly. "First, Tazok will die when we find him. And when he dies, the last thing he sees is my arrow plunging into his heart."

Sephiria shuddered once again. There was no light in his eyes, not in the literal sense like with Acherai, but deep down, under her skin, she could _feel_ it.

**_Murder. Blood calling to blood, the need for it. Is it always so bad? Does it not serve a needed purpose? Does this man not_ ** **deserve _his revenge? Is his rage not justified? Would the spilling of his foe's blood not bring relief and justice to many?_**

**_Follow the call of your blood. It will not lead you astray…_ **

She shook her head, growling in frustration. "We will… discuss it. For now, come with me. I'll show you the group, and we'll talk it over."

She turned in the direction of the camp, and led the strange elf toward her companions, feeling better at the thought of having more armed people around her. It wasn't that she distrusted Kivan, really, though he was a questionable sort. She firmly believed that his hatred was directed firmly, and _only_ , at Tazok.

She distrusted herself, though. As she walked, she glanced down at the corpses of the gnolls, and shuddered again. It had been so _easy_ to kill them. She hadn't even had to think about it. She had just defended herself without though, and… and she wasn't sure when that would stop. Or if it should.

Ugh. She had thought she'd _worked this out_ , but once again the universe didn't make sense.

 _Look on the bright side,_ she thought dryly, as she walked. _At least there were only three of them. I would certainly hate to find any more._

* * *

 

"Um. So," Imoen said, hopping back down into the crag from her scouting mission. "I have good news, and bad news. First, and this is the good news, I found the gnoll fortress!

"The bad news is there's… y'know. I checked around the edges, and there's only one way in. The walls are too high to climb, and the only entrance is up a slope with about ten guards. But I was able to climb a tree near the outer wall and see inside. And there's... erm. Well, as for gnolls, I counted... forty of them."."

The silence was painfully deep for a painfully long time, before Minsc said, "I shall take the twenty on the left!"

"So. We are going to die, then?" Jaheira asked sadly.

"I have been saying that for days and you only now begin listening to me?" Xan muttered.

"Not," Imoen said brightly, "if we can take the twenty on the right!"

Jaheira did not sob, but it was a near thing.


	9. Chapter Eight

It was when he looked up from the fire to see Sephiria had brought an elf home with her that Acherai began to wonder if perhaps his plans were unfeasible after all.

He could admit that part of the problem was that he just didn't like elves. Oh, he liked _being_ an elf; natural dexterity and a lifespan measured in centuries was amazing. But the majority of elves he had met in his life were, to put it bluntly, insufferable little gits. Self-confidence was one thing, but the fact of the matter was that elves, regardless of whatever subspecies they chose to see themselves in, were a stagnant race that was slowly but surely going extinct _._ It was painfully easy to see, and yet most of them remained firmly convinced they were Toril's master race and were downright _vicious_ to anyone who disagreed with that assessment. The drow were the worst, obviously, but all elves from the preening, holier-than-thou Gold elves to the viciously xenophobic Wild elves had the attitude to some degree.

Say what you would about Acherai's morals or lack thereof, but he was always on the lookout for opportunity, for growth, for improvement, for… well, profit. He valued nothing so much as his capacity to learn, change, gather new power and knowledge to himself. The notion of maintaining a culture that had been proven not to work simply because it made you feel better about yourself was absolutely anathema to him.

And of course, it was personal. His mother had been essentially banished from Evereska when he was a child, and none of the elves he had met had ever even told him why, instead choosing to act as though the young Acherai had not existed. She had clearly committed no crime, as she was left alone to live on the outskirts of the city, but she was clearly not welcome there either, and her child was unwelcome as well.

And since that solitude might well have been the reason she was dead, well…

Acherai did not look back fondly on his childhood growing up on the streets, exactly... but he did think that growing up around humans was a much better idea than spending the rest of his life around a bunch of elves. And yet, here his new pet paladin had gone about bringing one into _his group._

_And she hadn't even asked first!_

"This is Kivan, a ranger from the Shilmista forest," she had said by way of introduction. "He has offered his assistance in our hunt for the backers of the assassins who attacked us, and may have valuable information on that topic. In particular, he suspects a connection between them and the brigands who killed his wife. As such, I have chosen to recruit him into the group as an ally."

The elven ranger bowed, and said, "Your enemies are my enemies."

"Bah. Another one, then," Kagain muttered. "At least seems a bit less pathetic than the other elf, but still too many tree huggers fer my taste."

"Oh my. An archer?" Garrick said. "Well, there goes my claim to being special."

"You were never special, Garrick," Acherai said, mostly not paying attention. "Sephiria, dear? A word in private?"

"I see no need," the girl said, a small smile on her face. "We are all allies, are we not? We should not hide our dealings from one another."

 _Bitch_ , he thought. Out loud, he said, "Very well. I question the necessity of bringing a man you met in the woods at random along on a task which has already led to one attempt on our lives. How can you be sure he is not a bounty hunter, or assassin?"

"Because if he was," Sephiria said evenly, "I would be dead. I was attacked by gnolls on my walk. If he wished me harm, all he had to do was shoot me in the back while I was distracted."

"Regardless," Acheria continued, undisturbed… at least visibly… by the sudden defiance she was showing. "We _are_ walking into considerable danger. I hesitate to do so with someone I cannot trust."

Sephiria blinked, her gaze falling very meaningfully on Kagain.

"Not the same thing, dear," Acherai said flatly. "You. Kivan, was it? You said that you are hunting a group that killed your wife?"

"One in particular. The beast Tazok," the elf said, his tone a low growl. "Your leader said you hunt him as well. I do not care about any other task, nor any other target. I do not require payment, nor a share of any treasure we might find. As long as Tazok dies by my hand, I will serve your group loyally. That is all."

"Sounds fine to me!" Kagain said, brightening considerably at the notion of an ally who didn't want a share of the gold.

"Well, not to me," Acherai said, very softly as he turned back to Sephiria. "You want to know why I trust Kagain, my dear? Well, I _don't,_ but I can _predict_ him. His motivation is wealth. As long as I can offer him a better deal than my enemies, he will be loyal. If I can't, then I at least know where the dagger will be coming into my back from."

"Won't be in the back," Kagain said mildly. "Ain't no need fer stealth to kill a skinny thing like you."

"Oh, yes. He is clearly the perfect ally," Sephiria said dryly.

"He is, because I know exactly what he's going to do and when he's going to do it," Acherai retorted. "Garrick is no different. He might be a simpleton, but I understand his motivations and what he is willing to do to achieve them. But your friend here…" he gestured vaguely at Kivan. "That kind of trauma does things to a person. What if we encounter a situation where we need this Tazok character alive? What if we are unable to kill him? What if he's simply too powerful to be dealt with directly? Can we trust him to react reasonably to such a thing, or will he run in blindly and get us all killed?"

For the first time in the argument, Sephiria looked doubtful. "He is a noble soul. He surely would not…"

"Child," Kivan said gently. "I cannot honestly answer that question. You have no idea what was done to me, or to my wife. I cannot say what will happen if I come face to face with the monster responsible. I may well not be able to hold myself back, and if that puts the rest of you in danger, so be it."

If Acherai's words had her doubting herself, Kivan's made her jaw outright drop. "Surely you do not _agree_ with him?! You clearly need allies in your quest, and we-"

"I would indeed prefer to have your aid, and it seems we share a goal," Kivan said, his tone maddeningly calm. "But my motivation is not a noble one, as you seem to wish. Arvandor is calling to me, do you understand that? My body and soul are telling me to die. The chance for my revenge is the only reason I continue to live. If I see a chance to claim it, however slim, I cannot trust myself to react reasonably. Avenging my Deheriana very literally means more to me than my own life."

Acherai smiled at the young paladin in triumph, and she narrowed her eyes. "Well. Unlike some people, I have faith in the concept of goodness. Justice. And if I can offer this man a chance, I will do so."

"Even if it's a bad idea?" Acherai asked with an arched eyebrow. "Even if he can't be trusted?"

"I trust," Sephiria said, "that when all else is said and done, a good person will choose the right thing. Even if he does need some help knowing right from wrong."

Acherai blinked at her odd tone and the way her eyes were locked onto his… until a thought struck him, and he had to fight not to laugh. _Gods above, is she talking about_ me? _Really, now? A week and she's trying to morally redeem me?_ He kind of appreciated the thought; certainly this bizarre power they seemed to share was worrisome, and a girl thinking she could 'change' you was rarely a bad thing if you were intending to manipulate her, but _seriously_. She couldn't be _that_ naïve, could she?

… _Paladin. She definitely can be. But at least she's a not a hypocrite, thus far, you don't see that in paladins very often._

_Okay. So she is operating against me, but in a very moral way. And she's going to be making her own choices without asking, but they're going to be guided by naiveté and a genuine desire to help our group refine their moral code. So in other words, she an assertive idiot, but she's still an idiot. And as for her new friend…_

_You can never predict the revenge-crazed ones, but I don't really need to. Just make sure that when he snaps, he's pointed at someone other than me._

"Well. You _are_ the leader, I suppose. Though in the future," Acherai began, "could you perhaps at least put this to a vote, before you bring in new blood? I recall we needed someone with healing skills, not another gentleman to drive pointy things into people."

Sephiria blinked. "That's a rather sudden change in opinion."

The moon elf put on his best smile, the one that made tavern maids blush and not particularly care if he was picking their pockets or not. "You're the leader. And besides, maybe you're right. I don't _know_ this man. I suppose it isn't sensible to judge him before I see him in action."

_And it's not like I can't still get what I want from this. It's just going to be a little more annoying._

The young paladin still looked confused, but she sat down by the fire and took a bit of the simple travel stew bubbling over it. The new arrival stayed in the shadows, avoiding the rest of the party, and Acherai closed his eyes to enter Reverie without a great deal of unhappiness at the situation.

Sephiria was not the puppet he had been hoping for, but she could still be a different kind of puppet, if he was careful. The potential for him to come out on top of the situation was largely unchanged.

And wasn't that the only thing that mattered?

* * *

 

The only thing that mattered, Imoen realized quickly enough, was getting Dynaheir out alive.

Fighting their way through a lot of gnolls was a bad plan. She could spot that pretty quickly, based on the fact that there were like thirty of them and they were all in a fortress that the party was, again, outside of. The fortress did not appear to have a door, because gnolls were not the best at architecture, but what it _did_ have was only one entrance, which led up a narrow staircase. A frontal assault was clearly a really, _really_ bad plan. Minsc didn't seem to care, but thankfully he was outvoted. Still, given the way he was shivering with fury and staring at the fortress, his hand clamped onto his sword, Imoen was very much of the opinion they needed to get this done quickly and get _out_ of here, and said as much.

And through what the rest of the group could only assume was some bizarre miracle, Jaheira had instantly and firmly agreed. Even Minsc had been kind of cowed by _that_ one. If Jaheira and Imoen agreed on something without even arguing about it first, it was clear that this _was_ the plan to use, no question. And from that simple fact, they had observed the situation, pooled their resources as the group, and devised a strategy.

First and foremost, they would need three things. A path into the fortress that could get someone to Dynaheir's cell, a person able to follow that path, get to the witch, and get her out, and finally, something to draw the guards away from the cell in question. All three were easy enough to manage; there were several trees near the walls, and Jaheira's druidic magic could easily summon vines in vast quantities to bridge the gap between them and the top of the battlements. Second, Imoen was athletic and very used to climbing in and out of the windows of Candlekeep for… reasons… so making the climb and sneaking through the fortress was easily within her abilities. She was also the best suited to maintain her own balance while helping Dynaheir, who was most likely weak from hunger and fatigue after her captivity.

As for a distraction, well, they had a giant barbarian with a painted face and a wizard who specialized in mind-altering magic. If the two of them working together couldn't get a bunch of very stupid gnolls to pay attention to them, then something had gone terribly wrong.

There was one issue, though. And as usual, it fell to Khalid, in his role as what he was becoming increasingly worried was 'the sane one' to find it.

"W-well," he said, "It seems to me t-that we don't a-actually know where in the fortress we n-need to go."

"My love. I do wish you had brought this up sooner," Jaheira said with a wince. "Imoen. You are the closest thing we have to a scout. Can you determine the best point for insertion?"

Imoen scratched her chin thoughtfully for a few moments before saying, slowly, "Well… okay. The outcropping up there let me get a basic layout, and it's really not much of a fortress. More of a… big open pit with walls around it. There's basically no structure left, other than a staircase connecting the bottom floor to the top. The only place I saw to store a person would be some pits on the top floor, where the fortress is dug into the side of the mountain. I'd say we go up the ridge on the side of the fort and put me as close to the top as you can get me."

"… That was… surprisingly thoughtful, child," Jaheira said.

Imoen smiled proudly. "I am pretty good at breaking into places and finding stuff that other people don't want me to have."

"And my respect for you falls apart with barely a whisper," Jaheira murmured sadly. "But we have a plan, and we have an avenue of approach. Imoen, lead me to the vantage point you found, and I will prepare you a path to enter the fortress. Xan, Minsc, you will proceed to the entrance and create a distraction. Something large, but which preferably does not result in the entire fortress all coming to attack you at once and killing you."

"Worry not, friend Jaheira!" Minsc bellowed. "Well-known are the berserkers of Rasheman for our subtlety and grace! And any who would say otherwise shall be _crushed by the fist of Minsc!_ "

Xan sighed. "Well. I knew I was going to die one day. I suppose being crushed between a gigantic smelly enemy and a gigantic smelly ally is not the _worst_ way to end my existence. It shall render my death as meaningless as my life, if nothing else."

"… My love?" Jaheira said, softly.

"Yes, d-dear?" Khalid asked.

"You are a kind and gentle soul, and I know that you shall do all you can to protect our allies as best you can," she said. "But if the worst should happen and a choice must be made between your life and theirs, do feel free to use them as a shield."

"Worry not, friend Jaheira!" Minsc bellowed. "For Minsc shall guard your beloved with his life, and his life is nearly twice so large as most! Friend Khalid shall not take a single wound, as I charge into the midst of the foe and slay them all with swing upon swing of my _mighty blade! Rest easy, fair Dynaheir, for your guardian shall soon secure your safety, and secure it atop a mountain of the bodies of those who would dare harm your noble soul! GO FOR THE EYES, BOO, GO FOR-"_

"Minsc, m-my friend," Khalid said, mildly. "T-that is what we are _n-not_ supposed to do. T-they have us outnumbered t-t-ten to one and have the high g-ground."

"… Ah. Yes. You see, this is why Minsc is so glad to have his friends here with him!" Minsc said brightly. "They are so _clever._ "

The three members of the distraction team began their trek down the paths toward the entrance to the fortress, Khalid taking point, Xan rather reluctantly holding up the line, and Minsc in the back where he would have more people to hold him back if he forgot the plan, went berserk, and charged in blindly to his death.

Jaheira and Imoen watched them go, just kind of blinking in silence for several very long seconds.

Finally, Imoen said, "I have a _good_ feeling about this!" her tone bright and cheerful as she began to skip up a separate path, returning to the overhang she had used for her scouting.

Jaheira tried not to scream.

* * *

 

Sephiria was not quite happy with how things had turned out; Kivan was, if seemingly a goodly sort, still very much an unknown factor. And Acherai... on the surface he had seemed to accept her display of authority, but she was not so certain that he was completely behind her, deep down. Most particularly, the fact that he had not spoken a single word to Kivan the entire trip back, but was very obviously watching him like a hawk at all times. For his part, the ranger did not seem to care, but he had to have noticed.

This was the opposite reaction Sephiria had been hoping for; she needed to make sure that Acherai was not exposed to any more negative influences than absolutely necessary. The power they shared was evil, but it would not control their actions unless they allowed it. She firmly believed this to be true, and she firmly believed that with a little luck and a lot of faith, she could help him find a path that led him out of the darkness. She had hoped the addition of a goodly ranger to the group, himself another elf just like her extremely confusing partner (and when did she start thinking of him as a partner in this ridiculous mess that was 'adventuring'?), would give her another example to use, a show of the righteous path and how it would prove ultimately more rewarding than allowing their inner demons to guide them.

Of course, Kivan's morality had proven more ambiguous than she had been hoping for, in the end. And Acherai seemed more _annoyed_ by having another of his people in the group than she had expected. She wished Gorion were here, not for the first time. He would have known better how to handle the situation, he would have understood if she had broken some ancient elven custom or her new allies were simply antisocial, he…

He would have known what to do. He always knew what to do.

The group pierced the treeline, and Acherai smiled. "Beregost. Adventure completed, time to claim our just rewards."

She arched an eyebrow at his tone, and asked, "You wish to collect our reward first? Finding Tranzig is quite a bit more important."

"Well. I would argue that _anything_ is more important than funding we very desperately need in order to procure supplies and… just generally look a little less pathetic than we currently do," Acherai said dryly, poking a finger through the lightning-scorched tear in her armor that the mad cleric had made, and prompting a squeak of protest she felt his finger brush her side. "But you do have a point. We're hardly _all_ needed to drop off a holy symbol and pick up some coin." He snapped his fingers, as though a great thought had come to him. "I know! Sephiria, dear, you will take Garrick and our new friend to collect the reward. Kagain and I will deal with the location and interrogation of this Tranzig character."

He tried not to smile _too_ widely as literally everyone other than Garrick protested.

"I am the leader of this party, and you shall not delegate me to mere delivery duty whilst our quest awaits! And further-"

"I ain't trustin' no prissy paladin an' no looney elf with that much gold, an'-"

"I _refuse_ to allow you to drive me off on some meaningless errand while the trail to Tazok lies elsewhere, and-"

Acherai, without missing a beat, pointed to Kivan, Kagain, and Sephiria in that order and said, " _You_ can't be trusted in the room with a minion of the man you're obsessed with killing; if he says something that makes you think of your wife too hard you'll kill him and we'll be lost. _You_ cannot be trusted alone with large sums of gold, period. And _you,_ bluntly, are possibly the worst person in this entire city to handle an interrogation. It requires a subtle hand, mental manipulation, the ability to dispassionately analyze a person and make them think what you wish them to think. You're about as intimidating and subtle as a kitten."

" _A kitten?!_ " Sephiria squeaked, her cheeks blazing. "How _dare_ you question my competence in such a manner!"

"You _dare_ question my commitment?! My self-control?! I would do _anything_ to find Tazok! _Anything!_ " Kivan hissed, his eyes blazing with something not entirely sane.

"… Aye, I wouldn't trust me with that much gold either," Kagain admitted.

"So," Acherai said, "would either of you two like to admit that at some point Kagain became more reasonable than you? Or shall I just point it out for a few minutes whilst laughing?"

"This is not a laughing matter, child," Kivan said, his tone less venomous than before, but anger still bubbling under it.

"No, it really isn't," Acherai said. "If you're going to lose your temper so blatantly over the _thought_ of Tazok, then you can't be trusted around a more concrete reminder. I don't know you. You can tell me all you like that you're not going to be a problem, but I don't trust easily. I'm _not_ a paladin, I know how the world actually works."

"Ex _-cuse_ me?" Sephiria grumbled.

"My dear, you are a paladin of the god of truth and you lived in a library for the first twenty years of your life. You are not a judge of people," Acherai said flatly. He gestured around the group. "Case in point, your current group is made up of an amoral mercenary, an idiot, and a revenge-crazed woodsman."

"Who's the idiot?" Garrick asked.

"That isn't my point. You know full well that I…"

"Yes, yes, you just want to save us all, you're full to the brim of morals and truth, you're a decent sort and you have the best of intentions, blah blah _blah_. None of that means you know how to interrogate someone, does it?" Acherai asked. "Look. You _are_ the leader. If you really have a problem with it, we will follow your lead. But you should at least be able to give me a logical reason."

Sephiria tilted her head to one side. "Well. Maybe if I'm going to be the leader, I need to _learn_ these things, then. Dealing with people, learning how to read them… that sounds like something important, don't you think?"

 _She's challenging me again. Not letting me get my way without a fight. And she wants to keep an eye on me,_ Acherai thought, once again struggling not to smile. She was so straight-forward it was almost adorable, albeit in a mildly annoying way. "It does indeed. Very well, I assume Kivan and Garrick can get the money on their own. We _can_ trust Garrick to be honest, if not terribly bright, and I know Kivan wants blood more than he could ever want gold.

"You, oh fearless leader, will come with us," he gestured toward the bright red sign of Feldpost's inn, in the distance. "It's time to teach you how to be a people person."

* * *

 

Xan and Minsc made a diversion, and Khalid wondered vaguely if it was all right to actually let these two be in the group.

He could hardly fault their abilities, to be sure. Minsc was among the most powerful warriors he had ever met, and Xan seemed a capable and gifted mage. It was just that in terms of personality, they were not what he hoped to see in an adventurer. And he was aware that his own temperament was not quite what people 'expected' in those who made their living by the sword, but those two…

"Now, Minsc," Xan said, "you are almost certainly going to die if anything goes wrong with this plan. But if it makes you feel better, we will likely all follow you soon enough. Time is a merciless destroyer and even the longest of lives are as dust in the wind."

"I understand not your words, tiny man, but Minsc is a bastion of strength! To fall before those who kidnapped his witch would disgrace him forevermore!" Minsc said, covering himself in mud and fashioning a crude hat made of sticks and leaves. "And as you know, Minsc is a being of _subtle dignity_."

"Yes, certainly," Xan said, his tone so dry it could have dissolved a lake. "I see nothing wrong with that statement. Now, you do _understand_ the plan, correct? You are not merely saying you do so I will stop explaining it?"

"Boo tells me not to answer this question."

"… Very well. I will begin casting the spells required while you make your charge, but please, do _not_ charge until I give the signal to _no you buffoon what are you doing?!_ "

It was worth noting that this probably had not been what Xan had _meant_ to say. It was just that the exact instant that Xan had first said the word 'charge,' Minsc had done so without waiting to hear the rest of the sentence. A battle cry on his lips and a great deal of mud on the rest of him, Minsc burst from the small cavern they had been using as a planning ground, and ran screaming at the gates of the gnoll fortress.

"O-oh dear," Khalid said.

"Well! This will… be interesting," Xan muttered, closing his eyes, and falling deep into a spellcasting. There was a group of gnolls at the gate, and he needed to finish at least _one_ of the spells outlined in the plan before Minsc arrived at their location and… well, died. The plan was simple enough, it _should_ have worked as a distraction, but… well. Timing was a thing.

The gnolls looked up at the charging maniac, and a few of them snorted in confusion, but overall they didn't look too upset. There were six of them, after all, and they had over two-dozen allies mere seconds away. The sittings one stepped to their feet, snarling a warning to their allies and preparing their halberds to impale the bizarre thing. They weren't sure what it was, but it looked solid, which implied it was edible, if nothing else.

Minsc barreled into them, kind of just stampeding over the first one, screaming at the top of lungs, " _I am the noble spirit of Rasheman! I have come from the heavens to slay the takers of witches and defilers of hamsters!_ " which was not exactly what he was _supposed_ to say, but it was close enough. Gnolls were not hugely bright, and the actual writing of the dialogue probably wasn't important. Still, Khalid was forced to note that the gnolls did not appear to be either terrified by the distraction, or overly quick to call to all their allies.

"So," Khalid said. "S-should I go to h-help, or would that ruin the plan?"

Xan fought the urge to ask his erstwhile comrade to shut up, as he was in fact halfway through a spell and stopping for tea and a nice chat would actually ruin things rather horribly. He settled for giving him an annoyed glare.

"N-no, then."

Xan hissed out the final syllable of his spell and slashed his hand down, sending a wave of golden light toward Minsc, who was (as was his way) surrounded by monsters violently hacking at his face and the gnoll he had trampled over standing up and looking very cross indeed. The giant warrior swung his weapon wildly, trying to fend off five opponents at once. The gnoll he had stunned picked up its halberd, ready to stab him in the back…

And Xan's spell struck it. It stopped in its tracks, blinking in confusion, before roaring in absolute rage, " _Death to those who harm the spirit of Rasheman!"_ It had no idea what this meant or why it was saying it, but those under a charm spell often did things that didn't make a great deal of sense to them. The creature ran into the fray, slamming the blade of its halberd down onto the head of one of its own comrades, screaming that Minsc was clearly the great god of all gnolls.

Xan let out a deep breath of relief, and said, "Well. That worked after all. We might survive."

"Y-you mean there was a chance it wouldn't work? And you didn't mention this?" Khalid asked.

"Well. The large man seemed so _excited_ , I didn't want to disappoint him. Life will do that soon enough."

* * *

 

"I'll be damned," Jaheira murmured, looking down on the stream of gnolls charging down the steps toward the small (Oddly brown?) man that was now running away from them at impressive speed… helped, apparently, by the fact that they kept stopping to fight amongst themselves, or oddly just stop moving, as if they were falling asleep on the spot in small groups. "They actually… succeeded."

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Imoen asked.

"Khalid," Jaheira said primly, "is a veteran of many adventures, the finest warrior I know, and a cunning tactician. I respect him as much as I love him."

"So that's your way of saying you thought the other two would screw up, huh?"

"Your words, not mine. Now, let us move on," Jaheira said firmly. She slipped toward the evergreen they had chosen, and began to murmur a prayer to Silvanus, her hand touching the holy symbol hidden beneath her armor. A spark of green light danced from her figures, and the ivy wrapped around it began to grow, twisting up the trunk and weaving through the branches. The thin vines intertwined around themselves, wrapping together into strands thicker than rope that began to grow outwards through the empty air toward the wall.

"The spell will last for approximately twenty minutes before the vines return to their proper form. Please get in and out before then, if you do not wish to have to jump."

"No pressure, then," Imoen murmured, testing the vines under her weight and smirking. Yeah, this was gonna be fun. She scrambled up the tree like a squirrel, humming a little tune as she reached the top in a few seconds, very literally skipping across the ladder of vines and into the fortress.

Jaheira watched this. _That is our master of infiltration and stealth, hopping across into a fortress full of monsters like a child playing hopscotch and humming to herself._

_Perhaps Xan is right about us being doomed._

* * *

 

The joy of innkeepers was that they rarely wanted trouble with anyone. If you asked about a person, particularly a person who was behaving suspiciously already, they would almost certainly tell you where to find them as long as you claimed to be their friend. Even if they knew… as the good sir Feldpost clearly did… that you were lying. Acherai was not Tranzig's friend, he knew nothing about Tranzig, and he had no legitimate reason to ask which room Tranzig was in. And yet, the innkeeper was all too happy to wave the small group up the stairs to the inn's second floor. Because he didn't. Want. Trouble.

Wise man.

Tranzig was not a large man, which was surprising considering he was ostensibly some kind of mercenary-bandit. If anything, he looked more like what you would get if you took an already slender, bookish librarian-type of person, and gave him access to a career that allowed him to never, ever exercise. His hair was lank and greasy, which was a good match for his skin, and his robes hung off him like they were a tent he had decided to just try wearing as clothes one day.

Acherai tried very hard not to laugh as he took this all in. He was smart enough not to judge _entirely_ by appearances, but Tranzig made it hard not to judge a _little_ bit and find him desperately wanting. "Excuse me, sir?"

"Whaddya want?" the man snapped back. "Room's private. Get out."

"Well, I was just told to deliver a message to you, that's all. A man from the Black Talon mercenaries gave me fifty gold to send it along your way. You are Mr. Tranzig, right?" Acherai asked, using the tone of well-meaning stupidity he had cultivated in his childhood for speaking to adults. Elves tended to look younger than they were to humans, and one thing that _everyone_ was willing to believe about someone younger than they were was also dumber than they were.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but he didn't yell at the elf to leave again. "Hm. Idiots know they're supposed to deliver these things in person. Fine, gimme the letter and scram, kid."

"Oh, it's not a letter," Acherai said cheerfully. "He told me to tell you something."

Tranzig's eyes bulged out of his head so far it looked like they would fall from their sockets. " _What?!_ Of all the unprofessional…! Fine. Fine, just tell me. Boss is gonna be furious no matter what happens now," the man muttered, his hand slipping behind his back to the wand in his belt. He would have to kill the kid, nothing for it now. Tazok wouldn't like a security breach of this magnitude.

"Hmmm, now what was it…?" Acherai said thoughtfully, once again trying not to laugh. "Oh, that's right! I remember now.

"His name was Nimbul, and he told me to tell you I killed him. And you're next."

Acherai stepped backwards, kicking the door open and letting Kagain charge into the room. Tranzig gave a rather undignified squawk of protest as the dwarf charged through the room and, just before he could pull out the wand and aim it, slammed a fist into his midsection with enough force to crush bone.

Sephiria winced as she stepped into the room, watching Kagain kick away the discarded wand and stomp the man's hands for good measure. "You could have tried talking to him first."

"He's a mage. See the wand? Gotta move in fast an' make sure they don't get all magical on ya," Kagain snapped, ignoring the man's whimpering over his broken fingers. "Ain't gonna be castin' no spells now, I guarantee."

Acherai shrugged. "The little mercenary has a point. And we are on a clock, so…" he knelt down beside Tranzig, and smiled. "So. Let's try this again, and we'll all be honest this time. Your name is Tranzig, yes?"

"Y…yeah…"

"And you want to live, yes?"

The fallen man gave a pain-filled chuckle. "N-not much chance of that. That's the girl, isn't it? The little bitch Tazok wants dead. If she's here… you guys found me… he's not gonna let me live."

Acherai sighed, drew a small dagger from his belt, and jammed it through Tranzig's hand and straight into the wooden floor.

"What are you doing?!" Sephiria snapped, grabbing Acherai by the shoulder and pulling him away as Tranzig screamed. "You said there would be no torture! You _swore_ that…"

"I'm not _torturing_ him," Acherai said mildly. "Torture is about hurting him for information. I'm just hurting him to show him how willing I am to hurt him. It's not the same thing. It's all a game, dear. I need to make sure that he is more afraid of us than he is of Tazok, you see? Though I'm glad you are paying attention."

"Th…aaaaaah!" Tranzig hissed in agony, as the knife was pulled out roughly. "That tells me… you ain't never met Tazok. Ain't nothin' you can do to me that he can't… do ten times worse."

"Oh. Ooooh, he's one of _those_ ," Acherai said cheerfully. "The horrible leader that everyone is afraid of? He can give you a fate worse than death? Hair-trigger temper? That _is_ problematic. I don't think we'll be able to scare this one into giving us information, if he's that worried about Tazok. Kagain?"

"Yeah?"

"Kill him."

" _Don't_ kill him!" Sephiria snapped, her words drowning out Tranzig's rather pathetic squeak of terror.

"Why not? You're a paladin, he's evil."

"First of all, just because I am a paladin, does not mean I approve of murdering everyone morally bankrupt we meet. We are in the middle of a town. There are guards and gaols for a reason," she said through gritted teeth. "Second, we don't know what he can tell us yet!"

"He isn't going to tell us anything. He's already said so. You're not wrong about torture, dear, it _never_ works," Acherai said mildly. "The information you get is useless because they'll say anything to make the pain stop. And we clearly can't get him to talk any _other_ way. So we have no reason to let him live."

"Other than the fact killing him is morally wrong?"

"Morally wrong is such a loaded term. The thing about conspiracies, dear, is that members rarely end up imprisoned for very long. He has to know that if he ends up with the gaoler, he's also going to end up dead soon after," Acherai said, his tone still maddeningly reasonable. "So really, he is pretty doomed no matter what we do. Might as well end it quickly."

"Wait, wait," Sephiria said. "Are you even listening to yourself? The solution is clear enough. Sir Tranzig…"

"Ain't a knight," Kagain noted, his hand in place to crush Tranzig's throat if needed.

" _Principle of the thing_ , Kagain. Sir Tranzig. As you may have noticed, my compatriot deeply wishes to kill you," Sephiria said gently. "I am trying to avoid this, I truly am. But I need you to help us."

The man laughed bitterly, a sob of pain under the sound. "S-seems kinda pointless. Elf's not wrong. Tazok will never let me live after this. Nothing I can do."

"You can run," Sephiria said. "Fake your own death and flee the region, as fast and far as you can. And if you tell us where to find this Tazok, then we will ensure he is far too busy to follow after you."

"You… you think you can take him down? You? A buncha damn kids?" the man snapped… but behind his tone was something oddly hopeful.

"We 'took down' Nimbul," Acherai said, his tone very soft, barely audible. And yet, it filled the silence more loudly than shattering glass.

Twenty minutes later, a man with bandaged hands limped out of Feldpost's inn, heading to the stables as quickly as he was able.

Sephiria and Acherai stood in the doorway, watching as the horse began trotting out of town to the South, one of them smirking wickedly and the other looking vaguely sick with herself.

"I am a little embarrassed that worked so well, I really thought we were too obvious about it. You, my dear, are an _outstanding_ good cop."

"You didn't tell me you were going to hurt him," Sephiria said softly. "You _promised_ there would be no torture."

"Oh, _do_ grow up. He _was_ a mage, after all, we could hardly just let him wave his hands around. He has money, a horse, and all his limbs are still attached. Considering he works for the people who tried to have you killed, he got off fairly light," Acherai said. "And besides, we had to make sure he was afraid of us."

"It still… sits wrong with me. He was helpless."

"He was the enemy. And besides, you _will_ have to get used to blood at some point, dear. Unless you're forgetting that our little band has already put three assassins and a serial murderer in the ground, and picked up a new friend who is hoping to up that body-count considerably."

She sighed. "You don't understand. There is a difference between killing someone in the heat of battle, and doing it in cold blood when they can't fight back."

"Yes. The second one is easier and safer."

"Is that _really_ all you care about? What is easiest for you?" Sephiria snapped, her tone making it unclear if she was angry at him, or herself for association with him. "There has to be _something_ more to you. There just… has to."

"What can I say? I'm a survivor. And since you seem like someone who _desperately_ needs a little help on that front, maybe you shouldn't be quite so judgmental," Acherai said softly. "Besides, I compromised, did I not? He's alive. You got what you wanted. And the _group_ got what _we_ needed..."

He unfolded the group's map of the region, a location just north of the Larswood region marked with a charcoal 'X' where Tranzig had told them Tazok's brigands made their camp.

"A target."


	10. Chapter Nine

Acherai wiped blood from his jaw and winced, looking at the leader of the small gang of bandits, who had a black arrow protruding from where his eye used to be.

"So," he said softly as he limped over to rest against a tree, using his staff as a walking stick to support a leg he suspected was broken, "Would anyone like to tell me where this went _completely wrong_?"

**_Fifteen minutes earlier…_ **

"So, we are all clear on the plan?" Sephiria asked.

"We are, and it is actually a very good one," Acherai said. "And I'm being serious, not mocking you this time."

"… I suppose I should take that as a compliment," Sephiria said dryly, "yet somehow it does not feel like one."

"I do my best."

"What I wanna know is," Kagain said, looking around at the thick forest that made up the Peldvale region, a few hours northwest of the Friendly Arm, and roughly the spot that Tranzig had told them to look, "why we're bothering with doing this sneaky. We just need to smash up the camp, right?"

"And we will, but I suspect that attempting to do it ourselves will only result in our deaths," Sephiria pointed out. "We are certain to be vastly outnumbered. If we can infiltrate the camp, however, pass ourselves off as new recruits, then we can search it for any evidence we need for our own goals, and pass on the location to the authorities. I am sure the Flaming Fist will be quite pleased to send a small army to deal with those who have been responsible for the iron shortage."

"Gods bless mercenaries. May they ever need a steady stream of metal goods, to make them easier to point at our enemies," Acherai said cheerfully.

"They are not _mercenaries_. They act as the legitimate authority of Baldur's Gate, and by extension the region as a whole. They serve the law, and we can trust them."

"They act as a legitimate authority because their leader is one of the city's Grand Dukes now, dear. They're still mercenaries."

"Well, technically, but-"

"And what of Tazok, in this plan?" Kivan asked softly, cutting off the argument before it could get into full swing.

"He will face justice, my friend. That much, I promise you."

Acherai chuckled. "Now, define what you mean by 'justice' for him and see if he still wants to come with us."

" _Please. Stop. Helping."_

"No, I don't think he should," Kivan said. "I do wish to know, and depending on your answer…"

"Yes, yes, I am aware," Sephiria said, rubbing her temples. "Sir Kivan, I… we may not be able to defeat this Tazok. You must know this. He has an army at his command, and we number only five."

"One of which is Garrick, so we really only have four and a half if you really think about it," Acherai added helpfully.

"And I do not _care_ , child. I have sworn to end his life, and I shall," Kivan said firmly. "If I must do it alone…"

"And die?" Sephiria snapped, with a bit more force than she intended.

"That is not what I was going to say."

"No, but it is what you were going to _do._ Go alone, against an army of mercenaries, each one a trained killer, and die."

"And accept this as a worthwhile sacrifice, if before I die I am able to plant an arrow in Tazok's heart," Kivan continued, his tone maddeningly calm. "I have made this clear enough."

"And I am willing to work with you to achieve it. Tazok is a murdering monster who has ruined or ended dozens, even hundreds of lives. Certainly, if we can destroy him, that would be for the greater good," Sephiria countered. "As would ensuring he spent the rest of his life in a pit beneath the Flaming Fist compound. Or he was sentenced to death for his crimes, in a court of law. Would that not be justice?"

"It would not be _vengeance_ ," Kivan whispered harshly.

Sephiria stood firm, ignoring the chill in his tone and staring firmly into his eyes. After a long, cold silence, he stepped back slightly and said, "There is little reason to discuss this now, either way. We must first find his camp, and he himself. From there… we will all do what we must, I am sure."

"And speaking of what we must do," Acherai said, his tone lowering until it was barely audible. "Ahead. In that copse of trees. I can see someone behind one of the bushes."

"You are certain? I see nothing from this distance," Sephiria said.

"He is correct," Kivan whispered. "I count ten, total. Perhaps more behind the thicker trees, there is certainly room."

"Oh, really? I only saw the one," Acherai admitted.

The ranger nodded almost imperceptibly. "You have good eyes, but you are more of a city dweller. The camouflage in the wilds is different, and you're not skilled at sorting through it. I'm impressed you spotted even one."

"Yes, well, I shall try to suffer through my humiliation at not being more experienced living in the woods like a mad hermit," Acherai muttered. "Dearest, shall I do the talking, or shall you? I warn you, you won't do a good job. You've got a certain charisma to you, but this sort of thing is entirely out of your depth."

"And what is _that_ supposed t—no. No, I'm not going to engage you on this," she said with an annoyed sigh. "You are certainly more used to consorting with criminals than I am. You do, after all, often speak to Kagain. As a result, you will be better able to work our way into the confidence of these men. I will assume this is what you were talking about, for the good of my own mental health."

"A fine girl you are," Acherai said cheerfully, strolling out ahead of the group. Then, loudly enough to be heard in the trees, he shouted "Hello there! I was wondering if you fine gentlemen would be willing to come out of your fine perch there and have a talk with us about making us all quite a lot of gold? Oh, and if you keep pointing your bows at us, I will have my friend back there with the very surly expression show you exactly why elves are known for being _oddly good_ at archery."

There were a few minutes of silence, and for a bit (well, okay, more than a bit) Sephiria worried that her entirely too glib companion had just enraged a large group of very angry men who were going to attempt to kill them all. And then, tromping his way out of the underbrush and into the clearing the group had stopped near, came a tall, bald man with a face so scarred it was barely recognizable as human, and a mace that looked _very_ well used.

"So, then. Not many travelers goin' about _looking_ for our type," he said, his arms crossed. "Fewer still talkin' about money, unless they're beggin' us not to take theirs. So you want to tell me what yer goin' on about, elf?"

Acherai smiled, bowing with a flourish. "Certainly, friend. It is just that my friends and I are new to the region, come here after a group we used to run with near Waterdeep met an untimely end with the city watch, and _SWEET MYSTRA WHAT THE HELLS?!"_

It should be noted that Acherai had not been _planning_ to say this. He'd had a whole great story worked out, involving a three-night run from the Waterdhavian military, a narrow escape from Khelben 'Blackstaff' Arunsun himself, and possibly a romantic encounter with whichever of the High Ladies was most in fashion this month.

He did not get to say any of this, of course, because a black-feathered arrow shot past him, so close he could feel the wind rustle his hair, and slammed into the bandit leader's right eye. He fell back, unable to even scream as he fell, twitching pitifully as he hit the ground and breathed his death rattle.

"Well. Um," Acherai said, as the trees began to rustle with movement, and the sounds of bandits shouting and bows singing began to rip through the forest. "I am _so unhappy_ right now, I seriously am."

**_In the present..._ **

"No, really," Acherai said. "I would _really like_ to talk about this. And maybe, just maybe, _kill everyone._ "

* * *

Imoen smiled as she watched gnolls stream out of the fortress beneath her, chasing what she assumed was probably Minsc. He was extremely loud, so she could kind of tell it was him even if she couldn't see him.

_Okay. We have maybe twenty minutes, if Aunty Jahrie is right,_ she thought. _Can we do this?_

_We once stole the entire Keep's dinner, by ourselves and despite Seffie trying really hard to stop us. We can do anything sneaky you_ name _, inner self._

_Good on you! That was a test of your confidence, and I knew you would pass. You're me, after all._

After shaking hands with her inner self to thank her for the confidence check, Imoen climbed slowly down the wall, taking care to widen any footholds she found for the climb back up. The fortress was old and the fortress was crumbly, but who knew what condition this Dynaheir lady would be in when Imoen found her? Anything that might make climbing out easier was a good plan.

Fortunately, Gnolls were not the best at maintaining architecture. The top floor of the keep, where she had entered, was entirely bare except for two big pits and a kind of half-wall next to the stairs down. The old fortress had clearly seen much better days, but for Imoen's purposes this was basically Winterfest. She ran up to the first pit, looked down, and saw nobody in it.

This left finding Dynaheir an _awfully_ simple prospect.

The second pit contained a woman in a stained and tattered robe. She was pretty; not like, _Imoen_ pretty, but smooth dark skin, bright eyes, and long, deep brown hair that even an extended imprisonment could not quite disguise. Tattered and bruised, she still somehow looked like she was in charge of the pit she was stuck in, and would be throwing an elegant dinner party in it later.

"So. Hi there! You know Minsc?" Imoen asked, by way of greeting.

The woman looked up, obviously shocked by the sound of someone who was not a growling man-dog speaking to her, and said, "Excuse me? I hardly hoped to hear as much this miserable place, so I doubt mine own ears. You are familiar with my guardian?"

"A bit! He's down below us running around covered in mud with gnolls chasing him."

"… Yes, 'tis indeed what I have come to expect of Minsc, particularly since head wound number seven," the woman muttered with a sigh that reminded Imoen just a bit of Jaheira. "Well. If you count yourself an ally of brave Minsc, then you may count myself an ally of yours. I am Dynaheir, a Wychlaran-in-training of the nation of Rasheman, journeying alongside Minsc on our shared rite of passage."

"Oooooh. I'm Imoen. I'm journeying mostly for giggles, though I am looking for this one person in between the fun stuff. Gotta find her and smack her for runnin' off without me, y'know? Family stuff."

"… Quite. Well, young Imoen…"

"Actually, looking at you I think I'm probably your age."

" _Well, young Imoen_ ," Dynaheir said firmly, "I would much like your assistance in escaping this vile place. The gnolls were too frightened of my magics to kill me outright, so they chose instead to leave me in this pit until I was too exhausted to move before devouring me. Have you some method to secure mine freedom?"

"Nope!" Imoen said brightly. "Didn't think to bring a rope."

"… Fantastic."

"Hang on, madame fussy-britches. I'll go find something to drag you out with," Imoen said, skipping off.

Dynaheir sighed as she watched the girl vanish. "Yes. Sadly, about the quality of rescue I was expecting of Minsc."

* * *

"So?" Acherai said, once again, after the inevitab. "Anyone want to say anything? Kivan, maybe? Especially Kivan. I'm not even going to pretend that I am not leveling blame _right at Kivan_ , here."

"Why not?" Garrick asked. "I think it is rather his fault."

"Garrick, thank you for your help, and I will _stab you_ if you don't shut up."

"Glad to offer my aid."

"Now, then. Our illustrious leader. As our dear ranger was your recruit, as Garrick is a buffoon of the highest caliber, and as Kagain..." he turned, looking at the dwarf, who was face-down in some moss and mumbling to himself, "...appears to have suffered a serious concussion, I believe that I am the only one here who can offer a neutral opinion on his actions. And that opinion would be a very simple one: he has been a member of this team for all of a _day_ , and yet he has already _betrayed us!"_

"I... apologize," Kivan said slowly. "I... lost myself. When he began speaking, all I could hear..."

"He was there, wasn't he?" Sephiria asked softly.

"Yes. When Tazok... when he and his men took my wife from me. That man was one of them. I could barely see through the blood in my eyes, but that voice..."

"Was pretty much exactly like every other inbred moron who takes up banditry in the woods as a career," Acherai snapped.

"Not to me, child. You wouldn't-"

"My mother died while I watched, when I was barely ten years old," Acherai hissed, "so don't tell me I wouldn't _understand_. I don't blame you for wanting revenge, I blame you for being such a blasted _moron about it!_ "

Sephiria blinked. "Wait, you..."

"Not! The time!" Acherai snapped, holding up a hand to stall her. "I now have a broken leg, in case you missed that. Because one of these fine gentlemen hit it with a big damn club. In a fight we were trying not to start. Because it was our _shot at Tazok!_ "

Kivan winced. "Yes. I know. I made a mistake."

"No, you ruined _everything_. Because our one shot at getting into that camp without fighting off a hundred bandits was to sneak in, by convincing them we _belonged_ there. And now we can't. Because unless we happen to run into a cleric skilled enough to _fix this_..." he gestured at his limp right leg, "... out in the middle of the woods, we're never going to get close enough to the camp before they realize that this patrol is gone. And they'll move the camp, and we'll never find them again. And it's _your fault._ "

"That is _enough!_ " Sephiria snarled, stepping between them. "Acherai, Kivan knows he has done wrong! That is no excuse for such a horrible display, particularly against one who has suffered just as you have."

She stepped in closer, grabbing the elf by his collar and pulling him toward her. "Suffered," she repeated, "just as _we_ have. I know how much it hurts to lose family too, you may remember. If I met the man responsible, I cannot say I would not have done the same. Can you?"

"Of course I can. Because when I kill the people who took _my_ family, I'm going to make _sure_ I succeed. And so are you, aren't you?" Acherai whispered. And something in his eyes made Sephiria feel a slight chill down her spine, even as she found herself wanting to stare more deeply. Less than a second, but something compelling, a shimmer of light and the promise of murder was so hard to ignore...

She shook her head and pushed him away, sending him falling backward with a pained yelp as his leg collapsed under him. "I," she snapped, "am going to find justice for Gorion. And I will help Kivan find justice for his wife, do you understand me? And you will _not_ behave so coldly to a man in mourning."

Then, without warning, she whirled on Kivan, and said, "And as for you. I understand your anger, and your pain. But if you put this group at risk for your own personal ambitions again, I will cut you down myself, do you understand?" Looking back and forth between the two elves, and ignoring with all her power the strange calling that Acherai's words had ignited in her blood once again, she said, very firmly, "We are here seeking justice for the innocent, and for the fallen. We are not murderers, nor berserk animals. We are a team, and _I am in command._ "

Something inside her wailed in furious irritation at her stand, and she cheered at the thought.

She would not lose her soul without a fight, no matter what she battled against.

"Now. Please sit down, Acherai. I will do what I can for your wound," she said, a bit less emotionally.

"I'm already on the ground," he said, blinking in obvious shock. "You pushed me."

"... Yes. Well. That was an accident."

"It hurt."

"I am... sorry."

"My leg is broken, you know. It was painful, to be pushed."

"Oh, do quit whining," Sephiria said. "You will be fine. I can... well. I have the Laying on of Hands..."

"Which barely works."

"It works! Well! Enough!" Sephiria snapped. "And it is not as though we have any other options," _That I am willing to use,_ "So I request that you please be silent. Unless you feel a healer of greater skill is going to simply... _wander_ up to us!"

And, as soon as she said this, a woman came running out of the trees. Her hood and thick gloves covered all exposed skin, but her heavy breathing and uneven gait showed her flight was one of in obvious panic, despite the mace she carried. "Please... please! You have to help me," she gasped upon seeing the gathered adventurers. "If you don't help me, he'll kill me!"

Sephiria blinked, turning to Acherai, and said, "We don't know for _sure_ this woman is a healer."

"She absolutely is, though," Acherai said, smirking. "Just ask."

"My dear lady," Sephiria said, very slowly. "I wish to let you know that I will not allow anyone to harm you. But first, please tell me that you are not a healer of any sort, because the timing would simply be ridiculous and he will never let me hear the end of it."

"Nor will I!" Kagain offered helpfully.

"I... am a cleric, of sorts. But this is really not the..." the woman said, before being cut off by a man in armor tromping out of the brush behind her, a sword in his hand. "Please! You must help me!"

"Oh, gods damn it all," Sephiria muttered.

* * *

"Rope, rope rope, why do gnolls have absolutely no rope," Imoen murmured. Well, she knew why they had no rope: they were awful, seriously among the worst things she had ever known of. She would never go near another gnoll again if she could help it, once she got out of here. It would be the best thing she could do with her life: not be around gnolls.

"Come on! You nasty things live here, you must have something that's long enough to reach down a pit. You put her down there, what were you going to do to get her out?" she said with an annoyed sigh.

"Grrrrr..." said a voice in reply.

Imoen looked up from her search to see a large gnoll (and she meant large by gnoll standards) climbing up the stairs and looking directly at her, its eyes narrowing as it continued to growl low in its throat. It didn't have any blood on its halberd, which meant it probably had not killed Minsc, but the fact it was here meant that they were at least starting to give up the chase. Barely fifteen minutes in, too; apparently either Minsc was a very fast runner, or gnolls were not big on patience.

"Soooo," Imoen said slowly. "Can I have your big spear? I need something to reach down into a pit and stuff."

The gnoll charged, then, and tried to give her the spear in its paws. Pointy end first and delivered directly into her liver, but still: points for effort.

Luckily, Imoen was a real adventurer now, so she did not panic. … well, no, she panicked a little bit, but only because the gnoll was huge and had giant fangs, not because she was scared. That made sense, right?

Anyway, panicking wasn't entirely a bad thing, because she jumped to the side, and Imoen was nothing if not nimble. The surprisingly fast stab barely missed, scraping lightly against her armor and making her squeal in dismay. "Bad monster! Bad monster!" she squeaked, backpedaling and trying to nock an arrow in her bow before she got chopped into tiny little Imoen cutlets. Unfortunately, she was a little close for archery, but she didn't think much of her chances at trying to stab the thing with a dagger. She skipped back twice, took aim as quickly as she could...

And hit a wall.

Once again, Imeon found herself squeaking in dismay as the impact jostled her out of her attempt to aim, and only barely managed to duck under the slashing spear at it took a chunk out of the wall above her head. Seeing few other options, she rolled forward, diving between the gnoll's legs, coming to her feet behind it and spinning to once again take aim...

And found she had lost her quiver in all the commotion. One of the straps must have come undone when she hit the wall, because she saw it on the ground where she had been only a second before, a rather large creature now between her and it.

… _I really must get better at this. I bet Seffie wouldn't flub an adventure this badly._

* * *

_I must never let Immy know about this. She would mock me so much for flubbing my second adventure this badly,_ Sephiria thought sadly as she watched their new arrival hide behind her.

The issue, of course, was not saving a young woman lost in the woods. That was clearly the correct thing to do, and she was happy to keep her word on such a matter. The issue was that that the man who came out of the underbrush to chase her was not the brigand she would have expected in these woods; rather, he wore the uniform of the Flaming Fist.

The Flaming Fist mercenary company was, as the group had been discussing themselves not so very long ago, a complex group. Technically speaking they were, as the name suggested, soldiers for hire. However, their leader was widely renowned for his fair and just demeanor, to the point that the city of Baldur's Gate, the hub of the region, had named him to its council of Grand Dukes. As a result, they truly served less as mercenaries, and more as an unofficial army and police force for the region. Many of them were honorable and good-hearted men, a company she would be proud to join.

"You there! You harbor a criminal, now turn her over or share her fate!" the armored figure snapped as he walked into the clearing.

Not _all_ of them, of course.

"Hold, friend," Sephiria said gently, her hands raised to show she meant no harm. "The lady claims she has done nothing wrong. What do you accuse her of?"

"She is accused of murder most foul, and I am licensed to carry out judgment in the field for such a crime," the soldier said flatly.

"He lies! I have done nothing, I swear to you!" the woman shouted in reply, shrinking back from the man as if it was physically painful to look on him.

Sephiria sighed. "Sir Knight, I understand your duty compels you, but have you any evidence? Any proof that this lady is the murderer you claim? We could hardly allow you to simply execute a woman without any trial nor evidence," Sephiria said. "I am certain, as a soldier of honor, who fights to uphold the law-"

"If you stand in defense of a murderer, then you will share her fate!" the man snapped, raising his sword and falling into a combat stance, his shield held before his chest and his blade ready to swing.

Sephiria blinked. _All right, then. Not quite so devoted to honor or law after all._

She raised her own weapon, catching the descending blade and shifting it aside, stepping to keep herself between the young woman and the sudden attacker, shielding her with her body. She was exhausted, possibly wounded, she clearly couldn't…

The woman hissed something, a few whispered phrases in a language Sephiria had never heard. A chill ran down her back as a wave of some energy ran past her, rushing over the Flaming Fist attacker, sickly yellow light playing over his armor. As suddenly as he had charged, the man fell backwards, tumbling bonelessly to the forest floor.

Sephiria looked down at him as he twitched, struggling against the magic. She raised her sword, drawing her arms back to cut the man down before he was able to move again, resume his attack.

**_Go on. He deserves it. He betrayed his oath, turned on the innocent. Cut him down._ **

Sephiria froze, eyes widening at the sudden impulse. Truthfully, he probably _did_ deserve it. As a paladin, she might well have called ending such a flagrant abuse of his powers her holy duty. But that was not what stopped her blade mid-swing in horror.

She _wanted_ to kill him. Deep down, in her bones, she wanted to kill him more than anything. Justified or not, deserved or not, the fact was that in her gut she was _thrilled_ by the idea of bringing her blade down on a helpless man.

Cutting him down was not an evil deed. Her mind told her that it wasn't, but her _heart_ told her that it didn't matter, that as long as he _died_ there was no reason to worry, murder was its own reward…

And that was roughly when the universe reminded her she was not alone in it, as Kagain stepped forward wordlessly and brought his shiny new war-hammer down on the man's helmeted head.

Five times.

Rubbing the weapon on the grass to get blood and fragments of bone off of it, the dwarf looked up at her, shaking his head in irritation. "Worthless. Really, ye are."

Acherai chuckled. "You are, a little bit. You probably should work on that freezing up problem, my dear. You'll need to learn how to kill in cold blood at some point."

_No. No, I think that is the opposite of what I need to do,_ Sephiria thought, shuddering uncontrollably.

_Though clearly, something very truly does need to change, and soon._

* * *

_So. No bow. No rope. My options right now are trying to fight a big horrible dog man with a knife,_ Imoen thought, _or think of something tricky to pull._

She looked down at her knife, and up at the frothing fangs of the creature snapping its jaws at her.

_Leaning toward tricky!_ She confirmed to herself. On the plus side, though she was pretty good at tricky, and she didn't think her new dance partner was terribly bright. It was time for her to show the world exactly what she could do!

She fell to her knees and screamed, " _Oh gods please don't kill me!"_

The gnoll stopped mid-stalk, its eyes widening as it made a kind of confused yelp that might have been cute coming from a real dog, instead of an eight-foot-tall monstrosity, as Imoen squealed, "I am so afraid. Please, you have no idea how horrible it's been for me! I'm a pure, weak, innocent, probably delicious girl. They pulled me out of my peaceful, innocent… did I mention innocent?... life of being daily basted in spices and forced me out into the world where I am not at all fit to survive! Please, I beg you, good sir! Please do not eat me, even though I am pure, innocent, sweet, _innocent,_ and delicious!"

The gnoll chuckled, stepping forward slowly, its mouth twisting into a crude approximation of a smile. "It needs to be still…grrrrriiigh will not hurt it… just be still…" it said, and Imoen almost ruined her composure in shock at the notion that these things could speak the common tongue. They certainly didn't _look_ like they should be able to. They didn't even have lips!

"I swear I won't move, Mr. Gnoll!" Imoen said, putting as much fake gratitude into her voice as she could, watching the gnoll stalk toward her, its rusty spear ready to come down on top of her head. It was almost cute, really; somehow this thing actually thought she wouldn't _notice_ that it was holding its spear up, ready to try and chop her head off as soon as it got a few steps closer.

Though, to be fair… it hadn't noticed that she had stopped to beg _right_ next to the pit Dynaheir was in.

The creature took one more step forward, and Imoen darted between its legs once again, stabbing her small dagger into its foot. She was a little sad that the same trick had worked twice in a row, but… well, okay, not sad at all. The thing began jumping up and down, howling in pain and grabbing at its impaled paw. And also, not coincidentally, also being completely off-balance right on the edge of a pit.

"Imoen? What art thou doing? I hear the sounds of battle, but _ye gods!_ " Dynaheir squeaked in dismay as a gnoll came tumbling into her prison pit and landed head-first on the stone floor directly next to her, a loud and very discomforting crack echoing through the pit as she jumped back barely in time to avoid being hit as it flopped forward bonelessly. "Imoen?! What have you done, precisely?!"

"I got you a platform!" the girl said, grinning down at the trapped mage and her unconscious new cellmate. "I had to pay, too. Lost my dagger. So you owe me extra for this! I hope…wickel-rans make a lot."

"… So, if I come out with you," Dynaheir began, "is associating with you going to be constantly this… _unique_?"

"Sometimes it's even better!" Imoen said cheerfully.

"Oh, dear," Dynaheir murmured, stepping atop the twitching gnoll, and reaching up to grasp at Imoen's hands as she reached into the small oubliette.

The thief giggled as she pulled the young mage out, saying, "If it makes you feel better, we may have to jump when we get back to where I got in. I'm not sure the vines I climbed will still be there."

"Why…would that make me feel better?"

"It seemed like the sort of thing that Minsc would like, so I figured you would too! You guys are from the same place, an' all, an' he's _really_ enjoying the group! It will be a lot of fun to have you around too."

Dynaheir winced, and muttered, "I was perhaps better off a captive, then."

* * *

 

It took Sephiria a few long, deep breaths to compose herself enough to actually speak to her new acquaintance. The dead soldier, the scent of his blood, all of it required an almost physical effort to draw her attention away from them, but the new arrival's panicked breathing gave her something to focus on other than her own conflicting emotions. Ignoring the world around her as best she could, she turned to the lightly built young priestess and said, with only the barest of stutters to her voice, "Ma'am? Are you wounded, or-"

"Back away from it," Kivan hissed, his bow drawn and aimed at their new friend.

"Oh for the sake of _all that is holy!_ " Sephiria snapped, rage roaring through her veins in a burst so sudden she barely realized she was reacting until she had already begun to shout. "I refuse! I refuse to have everything continue to go wrong, and all of the world continue to work against me! You will lower that arrow and explain yourself, or I swear to Torm, to Tyr, and to Helm, all the gods of justice and law, that I will _snap your skinny elf neck!_ "

"That's my girl!" Acherai cheered. "Punch him a few times!"

" _You be silent!_ " Sephiria replied, demonstrating her potential disapproval for this statement. _No. No. Stop it. Calm. Do not give in, not even in the smallest way. Anger is only another branch of the same path you seek to avoid._ In a softer, but still very firm voice, she continued, "Kivan. I have given you a great deal of benefit of the doubt, and you have entirely let me down thus far. If you wish me to continue taking your side, you will _explain."_

"I recognized the language she spoke in her prayer. Raids on Shilmista, hunters in the dark, the sun rising on slaughtered children… I've seen it _all_ , shadowed one," Kivan said, his voice low and cold, and his arrow still aimed at the woman's heart, even as she pressed herself back against a tree like a cornered animal. "Take off your hood. _Now._ "

"I… thank you, but I shall be on my way. I have no desire for any further issues, and…" the woman said, slowly stepping backwards, around the tree and toward the bushes where she might dart off unseen.

Acherai muttered something soft under his breath, and moved his fingers slightly to the left. A minor cantrip, barely a spell, but it was enough. A minor gust of wind, right under the woman's hood.

Sephiria's eyes widened as the 'helpless victim' raised a hand instinctively to keep the sun out of her red eyes, stark white hair plastered by sweat to her matte black skin, needle-pointed ears peeking through the matted hair. Garrick let out a startled and possibly exaggerated gasp, Kagain audibly growled, though not half so much as Kivan. Even Acherai looked taken aback, and he normally showed what he was actually feeling about as much as an orc showed good table manners.

Sephiria could hardly blame them. She had never been one for the books, to her father's disappointment, but she could recognize one of the most feared races in the world easily enough.

The dark elf sighed, pulling her hood back over her head. In a voice much less filled with fear and far more with exasperation, she said, "Well. That is rather what I was hoping to avoid."


	11. Chapter Ten

Sarevok had to admit, he rather liked this part of the operation.

Oh, all of it had its _place_ , he knew that. Rieltar might have earned every last bit of his burning hatred, but he was a master manipulator. The plan he had created, the iron shortage that gripped the coast, would have very certainly earned him a fortune that made his own considerable holdings seem like the contents of a beggar's cup. But it _bored_ him, it truly did. Stockpiling ore? Delivering the contents between hidden storehouses? Connecting with scattered agents in clandestine meetings? It was so… quiet. So subtle. So _tedious._

But the 'bandits', the mercenary companies that Rieltar had contracted to play the part of thieves, driving the crisis to ever greater heights. _Those_ were people he could understand. Whether they were motivated by the love of gold or the sheer joy of blood, they took it by simple, straight force. It was not the best way to claim what you wanted out of life, he knew that, but it was certainly the most refreshing. He could even wear his armor in front of them, since not one had the slightest idea what it meant. It scared the Hells out of even the most hardened killer in the bunch, and he _approved_ of this _._

"So how long must I be out here, guiding small pink things into being something like an army?" Tazok snarled as he stood next to Sarevok, watching men load stolen iron goods into Bags of Holding for transport to the storage facility.

Sarevok smirked. "Do you mean the Black Talon humans, or the hobgoblins over in the Chill camp?"

The hardened soldier, one of Sarevok's most trusted lieutenants, looked over the camp with some disdain. "All small. All pink. All _equally worthless_. Would kill them all if you didn't think they was worth the trouble, boss."

It was hard to blame him; Tazok was not a member of any mercenary company, but one of Sarevok's personal acolytes and easily the most powerful fighter in his employ. A former soldier from the Sythsillian Empire to the far south, he was a half-ogre who favored his ogrish half _far_ more than his human half. He stood easily a head taller than even the seven-foot-tall Sarevok himself, and was roughly half again as broad at the shoulders and waist. He looked down upon the mercenaries because he could like reach out, lift any one of them with one hand, and crush his skull without visible effort.

But as he said, he would not do so while Sarevok gave him no orders to do so. Tazok did not respect much in this world beyond his own personal gain and his love of violence, but he very much respected power. His loyalty to Sarevok, and the power he represented, was absolute. He had only been eighteen years old, when he had met Tazok in the wilds. Sarevok had been in the mountains, training, and Tazok had misjudged him as easy prey… a notion erased when Sarevok had defeated him in single combat. The half-ogre had been a trusted servant ever since; a remora all too happy to attach himself to the biggest shark he knew. When Sarevok's 'loyalty' to his father's schemes had gotten him placed in a position of importance managing the faux bandit attacks, Tazok had been the ideal choice to serve as field commander.

Sarevok shrugged. "Whatever your preferences, I need someone who can be trusted in command of this operation. Taugoz and Ardenor might be paid in Rieltar's coin, but you insure the orders they receive come from me. Besides, you cannot claim you don't enjoy the work."

"Enjoy the work just fine. Despise the co-workers," Tazok growled. "Give me someone I can _work_ with. Ogres. Ogrillons. Would even take puny orcs, in a pinch. Chill Hobgoblins are just barely passable as soldiers, and Ardenor thinks too much to be a good lackey. And the humans… ugh."

"You realize, of course, that _I_ am human?" Sarevok asked.

"You don't count, boss. Strong enough to rip the horns off a dragon! Might be part ogre, somewhere in there. Would be happy to have you with me when burning a town."

"Alas, but serious battle will have to wait. Rieltar has me playing delivery boy," Sarevok said with an annoyed sigh. "After, I'm to return to the Throne and attend him in his next wave of negotiations. He'll be meeting the Knights of the Shield in two months' time."

Tazok's eyes widened. "Big name. This means…"

Sarevok smirked, raising a finger to his lips. "Nothing more where the men might hear it. We still have much work to do before things go _as planned_."

Tazok smiled. He was one of a select few beings who knew the full plan, and was enough of a psychotic killer to find it a good one. Leaving it at that, Sarevok picked up the loaded Bags of Holding; each one had nearly a ton of iron goods, and each one weighed no more than the cloth it was made of. He was no mage, but he had to admit magic certainly did have its uses. He had many miles to travel, yet, and with these items he could do it alone.

It was a ridiculous duty, but such things were needed. He needed to stay close to his Rieltar's business practices, until such time he was able to take them for himself. And then… well.

Gorion's ward was still out there, and while he had spent a considerable portion of his wealth on killing her, he knew in his blood it wouldn't succeed. She would come for him, he _knew_ it. And when she did, he wanted her to be gazing down on her from a throne, showing her how far beneath him she still was.

A silly notion, perhaps, but he was allowed to dream. Gods could do whatever they wished.

* * *

If someone had told Sephiria, merely even a week before, that she would be hunting a team of bandits back to their camp with a dwarven mercenary and a Drow elf cleric behind her, she would have assumed they were insane.

Thus far, she had to admit that the dark elf woman, Viconia DeVir by name, was not nearly the mythical monster she had come to expect from the Drow's dark reputation. They had truly seen no evidence that the Flaming Fist officer's accusations were true, in any event; she seemed barely able to walk under her own power following the chase that had led her to them. Kivan had not cared, of course; the feud between the subterranean drow and the lighter-skinned elves of the surface was legendary and bloody. The ranger had been very open in his desire to put an arrow in the dark elven priestess and have done with it.

It had been, oddly enough, Acherai who had spoken up on the woman's behalf. And Sephiria herself, while wary of Vicionia both for her species and the possibility she actually was a dangerous murderer, couldn't deny his (slightly cruel) logic:

"Well, _you_ got my leg broken, and _she_ fixed it, so you'll forgive me if when given the choice between two elves who are certain to cause problems for the group, I'll pick her. At least she has more value from a practical perspective."

And so, they had allowed the drow woman to remain. She had mostly stayed silent, walking at the rear of the group and shifting her gaze warily between the two male elves as if she expected one of them to turn on her at any moment, but she had not caused a problem or made any effort to start a fight. She even seemed to somewhat approve of Sephiria, apparently liking the idea of a woman leading the party.

It had taken them a few hours of walking like this before another group of bandits crossed their path. Sephiria nodded at her erstwhile partner as Kivan informed them of the planned ambush, and Acherai smiled and said, cheerfully, "Viconia, dear, to the front, hood just far back enough they can see your face."

Under her hood, the drow arched a perfect white eyebrow. "I do not believe I take orders from you, _darthiir_ ," she murmured. "I tolerate your presence for the protection your leader offers, but I have not fallen so far that a faerie elf may simply command me."

"Oh my. You are going to be another difficult one, I see," he said. "Dear heart, if you would? Those fine men with their very fine bows are going to start shooting at us eventually. Having a dark elf involved in negotiations would certainly give us the advantage of intimidation."

"Viconia, he does have a point," Sephiria said, hating to admit it. "The reputation of your people would likely make bandits show whatever respect their sort can muster."

The drow rolled her eyes, sighing as if this was an _intense_ irritation to her, but she stepped forward, pulling her hood back as Acherai bowed to her with utter, impossible sarcasm.

Sephiria tried to pretend she was confident the plan was working, but her company made that difficult.

* * *

 

"I'm a little surprised. I was thinking that gnolls would be better at tracking us," Imoen said as the group marched through the wilderness, double-time at Jaheira's insistence. Dynaheir was not able to keep up, being exhausted and half-starved save for what travel rations they could feed her; but thankfully Minsc was more than able to carry her slender weight.

Xan also had trouble keeping up, but he seemed to enjoy complaining, so that wasn't a big deal with anyone.

"Why," Jaheira murmured, continuing to tromp through the wilderness at the lead of the group, the underbrush seeming to simply melt away from her before she had any need to cut it, "do you sound _disappointed_ that an army of vicious monsters is not _hunting us?_ "

"I'm not disappointed!" Imoen said, looking back over her shoulder to make sure there weren't any slavering monsters coming up behind them. Xan was still alive, so probably not. "I just thought they'd be good at hunting. They're part dog."

"They are not 'part dog', child. They are in fact believed in some circles to be part _demon_ , though it is largely unclear as to their true-"

"They _look_ dog, though."

Jaheira tried not to scream, but only because there might still have been some kind of monster close enough to hear them. It did not help that Khalid was (and she _knew_ he was, he might make no sound but she _knew her husband_ , dammit all) struggling very hard not to laugh.

"Are we nearing to a village of people, my friends? Minsc is strong and can tromp through the wilderness all day and night without rest, but fair Dynaheir needs rest and food and to snuggle with hamsters."

"Two of those are somewhat true," Dynaheir said, her voice soft with fatigue. "The notion of hamsters 'tis all in Minsc's mind."

"And I notice that I am being abandoned. That none care about _my_ travails," Xan called out from a little too far behind them for anyone to care. "I too rot with fatigue and pain, and yet I am ignored by my supposed allies. I should not be shocked, I suppose… this is merely a symptom of the universe as a whole, showing its absolute cruelty through the actions of the lower beings that make our way meaninglessly through the-"

"Ah, and we have found the town! Nashkel ahead," Jaheira said, just a little more loudly than needed. "I am sure that with the iron mines open again, some sort of caravan will be traveling north to give word and resume trade negotiations; Khalid, you take Imoen and Xan to procure supplies while I attempt to find a likely group and arrange passage. Minsc, please, take your witch to the inn as you wish and allow her to rest as you will. We wish you luck in your journey home."

"Home? Silly Jaheira, Minsc and Dynaheir do not walk to Rasheman yet!" Minsc declared heartily. "Surely you remember we came to this land upon our Dajemma? Of course we cannot leave until such time as Minsc has achieved his rite of manhood by facing down the _great evils_ which assail the people of this land, and until wise Dynaheir is even wiser than she is now!"

"Minsc over-simplifies a tad," Dynaheir said dryly. "But he speaks more or less truly. I come to study the troubles that plague this land and do what I can to solve them, as part of my rite of passage among the ranks of the Wychlaran. And Minsc… as odd as this may sound to look upon him, he is not technically considered an adult by the standards of the Rashemi berserkers. So he too must pass this test."

Jaheira winced. "So, then. You wish to remain with the group, then."

"Shall this be a problem?"

"Your aid shall not be a problem, of course, lady Dynaheir," Jaheira said respectfully, trying very hard not to look at Minsc. "Yes. Indeed, _your_ aid would be a fine addition to the group, I'm sure, but…"

"Then 'tis settled. Minsc and I shall rest and take a meal whilst passage is arranged, and I shall take the time to pen the spells I've maintained in my memory to a new book. There will be ample time to sleep on the road, when the wagons begins moving." Dynaheir said, smiling with approval. "Come, seek us at the inn when you are ready to proceed."

Jaheira sighed, watching the two proceed out of the trees and head into town, seeking the inn and a few hours of rest while the party made preparations to travel north. Her husband patted her on the shoulder, and smiled. "T-there there, dear. It won't be the worst group of people we've ever t-traveled with."

"Anybody who has ever spent any time with Elminster would be forced to admit that," Jaheira muttered reluctantly, dropping her voice so only Khalid could hear. "But they have delayed our mission more than once already. They Who Harp might be fond of their doing things the hard way, but they still expect results from We Who Actually Get Things Done."

Tenderly, Khalid leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "And y-you always deliver. No m-matter how angry you get in the m-meantime."

She smiled despite herself and returned the embrace. "You are quite lucky I love you so, silly man. Else, I would take your words as sign that you see me as having anger issues."

"P-p-perish the thought."

* * *

 

The bandit camp was… worrisome.

Acherai was not an idiot. Kivan was not allowed anywhere near the camp, and Sephiria would be watching him closely at all times. Garrick would be there too, but Acherai had basically already decided that Garrick would be 'voluntarily leaving the group' upon their next return to civilization, when Kivan finished dying or whatever he was planning to do. They had acquired a competent cleric, meaning their little team now had both divine and arcane magic, capable warriors, and (ahem) a skilled rogue. It was time to start pruning out the useless bits. In the meantime, he and the two members who actually _looked_ like they could blend in with bandits would handle the infiltration and get any data they needed before making a quick escape.

But still, he had not been expecting _this._

The camp was not some collection of brigands; the humans were clearly soldiers, with good quality weapons and armor, targets and training dummies set up for combat drills, and a central command tent set up with messengers flowing in and out of it at regular intervals. On the other side of the camp, a small army of crimson-skinned hobgoblins had set up a similar arrangement, and as he watched a pair of them dragged a human corpse from a massive pit dug outside the camp, and threw it into a cave behind their tents. Inside, something furred and massive snarled and dragged the body in.

 _Oh, my. We_ are _in a little bit over our heads_ , Acherai thought as the bandit they had convinced to 'recruit' them spoke to a lookout on their behalf. His eyes scanned the camp, noting sentries, things that might have been supply caches, _any_ detail that might have been useful in even the smallest way. He felt like he was missing something, some detail about the situation that would make everything click into place, something _…_

… _Large. Something_ very large _._

The ogre (or was he an ogre? He was big enough, but he didn't look quite right…) emerged from the central tent in the camp and stomped over to them, a walking mountain of muscle and metal, and looked down on his men, who appropriately took several steps back. "The _Hells_ you bringing prisoners here for?! What part of 'no witnesses' you idiots not getting?! He _just left!_ He comes back to pick something up, he left a paper or some nonsense, he sees prisoners that we _should not have,_ and he starts _ripping off heads!_ I tell you right now, the heads I give him will be _yours, idiots!_ "

"B-boss, ya got it all wrong! They ain't prisoners, they're new recruits. Bandits from up north. I thought…" the man who had brought them here began to say, raising his hands in placating gesture.

Tazok reached out with one hand and twisted his head so sharply it was left facing completely backwards. He fell bonelessly, twitching weakly as his brain began to catch up on the fact his body was rapidly dying.

"You. Don't. Think. _I think_!" Tazok snarled, looking down on the man. "You! Elf! Tell me why I should not eat your liver!"

Acherai took a deep breath, and put on his best smile. "Because I was smart enough to seek you out and ask to join. Because I was good enough to succeed in _finding_ you. And, well..." he gazed down at the soon to be corpse, nudging it with his boot, "… because you have a need for at least one replacement worker, I see."

The ogre blinked a few times, before his face split in an absolutely hideous grin. "HA! I like you after all, elf. Maybe not kill you right away. Maybe wait until dinner time. Not many deer left in the forests these days, and Elf tastes better than venison anyway."

"Or," Acherai suggested brightly, "you could let us _steal_ you some dinner from someone, what with us all being bandits. And then we can work for you, and everyone is alive and well-fed."

"Hmmph. You quick with words, elf, but not mean you can be trusted. Still, not see many good-goods travel with drow, so you probably not decent sort. I like not-decent sorts! Let you live for a while and see if can't put you to use later."

"You're a pal," Acherai said cheerfully. "Now, if someone who still has all their bones intact would like to lead us to where we can set up camp, we'll…"

And just before he could finish his sentence, Tazok snapped a hand up in front of his face with deceptive speed for his bulk. Momentarily too shocked to speak, Acherai just stared, his eyes trying vainly to work out what the _Hells_ the monster was even doing…

And then, his stomach fell in horror at the sight of a _distressingly_ familiar black-feathered arrow imbedded in Tazok's arm. The ogre regarded his impaled limb with a sort of detached look, seemingly unbothered by the fact that the arrow would have been in his eye were it not for his nigh-impossible reflexes.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity of silence, the creature began to growl with what could only be described as _unimaginable_ rage. He spoke only two words, then, but they were enough to make Acherai wish very much he had stayed back with Sephiria.

" _Kill. EVERYTHING_."

 _As long as he starts with Kivan_ , Acherai thought numbly, _I'm kind of tempted to let him._

* * *

 

Kivan had known the arrow wouldn't do the job. He had seen for himself just how strong and fast Tazok was, and knew the ogre was nigh-unkillable. Between his own naturally thick hide and the steel breastplate the creature wore over his vital organs, the simple fact was that the only option was to wear him down slowly, bleeding him out drop by agonizing drop until an option became available to put a bolt directly into his brain or jugular.

Which, bluntly, was more along the lines of what Kivan _wished_ for. A slow, lingering death, lost and alone in the woods as he tried vainly to capture an elven ranger in his natural habitat… he could imagine few fates Tazok deserved more.

He felt little guilt at the notion of abandoning the group. He had been quite certain to leave Garrick and Sephiria as hopelessly lost as he could manage, claiming he was leading them to a vantage point the bandits would not notice them. The odds of them encountering any bandits in the wild forest were slim to none, and he respected the girl's skill enough to assume she could manage to handle any stragglers.

As for Acherai… well. He had chosen to support a drow, a blackened murderess, over one of his own people. He, the dwarf, and the spider-worshipping bitch would most likely die, and it struck him that this was probably not an evil.

Besides, even if they did survive, this was Kivan's final battle. He knew and accepted it. Whether they lived or died, he would see none of them ever again.

The underbrush shook as the ogre charged into the treeline, howling his fury. It was a bone-chilling sound, but Kivan felt nothing but smoldering fury at the sound of it.

 _Deheriana…_ he thought as he spun, released an arrow, and burst again into flight without a single wasted motion. _I'll be seeing you soon._

_And bringing you a head to mount on the wall of wherever you dwell in Arvandor._

* * *

 

"Everyone," Acherai said, watching as roughly thirty bandits who had been close enough to see Tazok charge into the woods like a mad bull all took aim at him, " _follow him!_ "

"… What?" one of the bandits said, lowering his bow and blinking in confusion.

"Idiot, Tazok said-" a hobgoblin, one wearing darker armor than most of the others and carrying a better-quality bow, began.

"To kill the attackers! They're out there, in the woods, firing arrows at us!" Acherai snapped. "What are you all doing?! Get out there and catch them! Tazok needs your help!"

Silence.

"Well, okay, he probably doesn't, but you should still _offer_ it! Otherwise, he might be angry when he gets back!" Acherai snapped. Then, more quietly, he murmured to Viconia, "Behind the larger tents in the east edge. There's a pit of corpses. They're using them as food for whatever's in the cave there. Wait until I get their attention firmly on me, then slip away. You can work out what to do."

Viconia blinked. "How…?"

"You don't hide your holy symbol as well as you think. Sneak off and do what you can," he murmured. Raising his voice, he shouted, " _Well_? Get on it, people! Tazok is going to be back soon, and you _know_ that if he doesn't find what he's looking for, we're all going to be missing our heads!"

"Impudent elfling brat," the hobgoblin in the black armor snarled, and Acherai was briefly impressed that he actually know what 'impudent' meant. Most hobgoblins struggled with 'door.' "Do you not think I see what you're doing? Ardenor Crush did not come to lead the Chill by letting enemies simply wander into his camp."

"Then why aren't you out there catching them?"

"Because you're _here_ , and we're going to-"

"Actually, he kind of has a point," the human bandit said, and a reassuring number of the other bandits, of both species, nodded. "Tazok _is_ gonna be angry when he gets back. Someone shot him. If he wants us to back him up, and we don't do it…"

"For the love of… human, you do not _think._ If you need someone to do your thinking, go find your commander, if you can locate him under that thousands pounds of armor he insists on wearing," Ardenor snapped. "The attack began when they arrived. They die. Simple as that."

"Taugosz understands how this works. He understands Tazok is the one the bosses pass their word on down through. We need to keep him happy. Unless _you_ want to see him angry at _you_ , hobbo, you had best quit acting like you're in charge and-"

Ardenor blinked a few times, and pointed. Three of the hobgoblins shot the unfortunate man with their drawn arrows. "When Tazok is not in camp, I _am_ in charge. I dislike uppity human idiots."

Acherai smiled. Gods, they were going out of their way to help him, it seemed like. " _Traitors!"_ he screamed, pointing his staff at the hobgoblins. "Trying to take over the camp while Tazok is away?! Should have known you slimy monsters couldn't tolerate working with _real_ people." He turned to the human bandits, who were admittedly looking _very_ edgy at losing two of their number in less than ten minutes.

"You aren't actually _listening_ to this!" Ardenor snarled, though he didn't look very confident anymore. Particularly in the sight of a massive man, wearing full plate and carrying a Warhammer with practiced ease, emerging from his own tent to see what all the fuss was… and looking _very_ unhappy with the Chill arrows in the bandit's chest.

_Now then. One more spark._

He shifted the fingers on one hand through a series of patterns, whispering under his breath. It helped that nobody was really paying attention to him; also that the spell was a short one with very little in the way of chanting or that silliness. A basic Charm, something that would make a single, weak-minded target perceive him as their greatest ally. Someone they could trust implicitly.

In the crowd, a single bandit turned toward him, his eyes glazed over and a trusting smile on his face. Acherai smiled right back, the most guileless expression he could manage, and silently mouthed, _You should probably shoot some hobgoblins._

The man cheerfully nodded, nocked an arrow, and things got _fun._

* * *

 

_Stupid. Stupid. STUPID._

The thought kept running through Sephiria's mind as she ran through unfamiliar woods, trying to seek out the party through the sounds of combat. She had truly expected better of Kivan; when he had vanished into the woods, it had been a shock. She had known he was displeased by Viconia's presence, and not being given the chance to face Tazok immediately, but she had truly believed she was at least _starting_ to get through to him.

And now, he was likely to be marching to his own death, and possibly the death of the entire party. And she was _lost in the woods_.

Like a child. A damn child. She had failed at every step of this journey, and she was _more_ than sick of it. Acherai treated her like a doll, Kagain treated her like a pest, and now even Kivan treated her like something that needed to be protected, left behind for its own safety. While he went to die, she was to run away and save herself.

Just like Gorion had done.

Never. Again.

**_That's right. Face your foes openly, and cut them down. It's the only path for you, and it always has b-_ **

_It isn't about death, and it isn't about any need for battle. It is about my comrades needing me, and me needing them._ Sephiria thought, steeling herself as she charged.

 _I am a paladin. And I will_ never _falter again, I_ swear.

She broke the tree line to find not a camp, but a small clearing, three men standing inside it, each one grizzled and wearing battered leather armor, well-worn weapons at their sides. She had just enough time to hear one of them wondering aloud what the ruckus was at camp was and speculating if they would get a pay raise if Tazok killed enough of their fellows.

_No risk of an innocent target here, then._

A charging girl woman in full splint mail could not proceed quietly, and she had been lucky to get this near without being noticed due to the camp seemingly erupting in violence. The men saw her as soon as she burst from the underbrush, charging forward sword in hand.

One of them had bow in hand, nocked an arrow, and Sephiria

_Was struck in the eye, dying instantly, and ended her grand adventure on the most pitiful note possible_

Ducked low in mid-stride, the arrow flying past her ear, so close the wind brushed her helmet. She swung her sword low, the tip grazing the ground and slashing as she charged into melee range. He threw away the bow and reached for a well-worn sword, his two allies moving to defend, and

_She was cut down, an arrogant, petulant child utterly out of her depth_

**_She killed them all, reveling in the violence, becoming the killer she was always meant to be_ **

She struck, fast and accurate, natural skill and training overcoming the killer instincts of the mercenaries, the advantage of surprise and her own _will_ driving her forward. Her sword, the simple, heavy blade she had brought with her all the way from Candlekeep, ripped through the air like lightning.

There was no ambiguity, and there could be no hesitation. She was the daughter of Gorion, she was a _paladin_ , and where she saw evil and the oppression of the innocent it was her _duty_ to put aside all else and _strike…!_

The first man fell, clutching at his throat as a deep, diagonal line of red opened across the whole of his neck. His two allies, overextended and moving far too slowly, swung their blades at empty air as she skipped back, the entire charge, kill, and retreat a single perfect motion.

She raised her weapon, stained with the blood of the first human being she had ever personally killed, and looked at the men somberly. "The group you serve has killed hundreds and spread suffering through this entire region. In Torm's name, I command you: surrender or join the bowman in death. I will not ask again."

Something inside her hissed in fury, though she was not certain what enraged it more: the mention of her deity, or the offer to let victims surrender. **_You_ will _learn,_** the thought that was not _quite_ her own came unbidden, and with it a cold rush of dark rage.

She let a grim smile come to her lips.

 _I already know what I need to know,_ she thought, as the two bandits split up, moving to flank her and strike in a pincer. _And I think for the first time, I'm remembering that._

* * *

 

Humans were easy. Hobgoblins even more so. If you knew what strings to pull, it was not hard at all to get two groups so predisposed toward violence to turn on each other. It was, however, kind of nasty to get out of a gigantic chaotic melee without getting killed yourself.

 _Which_ , Acherai thought with glee as he heard the moans and smelled rot on the wind, _is what Viconia is for._

The truth was, he really _had_ been uncertain about her. Yes, she was probably more trustworthy than Kivan in the sense that she could at least be _trusted_ to put her own interests first, rather than willingly marching into certain death if it got her revenge in the process. But she was still a Drow. Even if he couldn't be bothered to hate her based on her race, she certainly seemed to dislike him based on _his._

But he had spent nearly a day traveling with her now, and she had not kept her holy symbol well-hidden at all. Oh, Sephiria hadn't noticed, but that was because Sephiria was, bluntly speaking, a nitwit. But a holy symbol of the goddess Shar was hard to mistake for anything else, even at a glimpse.

Viconia didn't want this widely known, clearly. Shar was not the sort of deity who encouraged her worshippers to advertise their allegiance; they were supposed to be silent killers who hid themselves from others not of their own faithful, hoarding dark secrets and spreading oblivion and loss wherever they went.

But Acherai didn't mind, really. A dark goddess was the sort who gave her worshippers dark powers, after all. And dark powers…

**_Really can be terribly useful, if properly applied._ **

Viconia had done as expected, and done it gloriously. The corpse pit behind the camp, kept as a food source for the many and varied goblinoids of the encampment, had risen from the grave in a wave of lesser undead. Zombies and skeletons, animated by the priestess's dark prayers, shambled into the ranks of the already fighting bandits and began to do what they did best. More soldiers swarmed out of tents on both sides of the conflict, and nobody at all seemed to be aware of _who_ exactly they were supposed to be fighting (except the undead, who were fighting anything that was alive).

And that meant the main tent—and with it, whatever documents that Tazok might have kept in his headquarters—was wide open.

"Kagain!" he snapped, charging through the melee and sliding beneath a swinging sword, only to listen to the sound of the man who had swung it collapsing behind him as Kagain's hammer crushed his knee. "Stay close to me! I'm fairly sure that even these people will figure out they should be aiming at us _eventually_."

"Shame about me aiming better!" the dwarf howled in obvious glee, storming through the chaos at a height that most people just weren't aiming for, and taking full advantage of it. More than one mercenary fell to be crushed underfoot in the crowd because a golden warhammer had smashed their legs beyond use.

Acherai shuddered, trying to keep focused on the tent. He had been more than pleased with how things had turned out, but the chaos was turning out even more extreme than he had imagined. A _fourth_ faction had joined in, a pack of gnolls that had been kept in the caves and fed on the corpses. They were apparently reacting solely on brutal instinct at this point, drawn by the blood and flame to kill anything they saw. And Kagain was enjoying things a _little_ more than was healthy, which was surprising to the young elf. He had thought the dwarf was more stable than that. Logically speaking, he supposed people who didn't like killing didn't become mercenaries, but it was still off-putting.

The last time he had seen _anything_ like this would always be a sore memory for him, after all…

 _Eyes on the prize, Moonshadow,_ he chided himself. _This is not the temple, and you are not a child anymore. This time the blood and chaos is_ your _doing, and you can use them to achieve what you need. Ride the wave to your goal._

**_And appreciate the results of your power._ **

* * *

 

Sephiria looked down on the bodies of the three bandits, and let out a deep breath. She had been expecting a sense of crushing guilt; these were not like gnolls or hobgoblins, not monsters. She had never killed a human being before now, and oddly it didn't… feel wrong. It wasn't like there was anything else she could have done, after all. And she didn't feel any satisfaction, either. Just a kind of coldness.

It was something, anyway.

"Garrick?" she called out. "You can stop hiding now."

"I wasn't hiding!" the bard protested, coming out from behind the tree he had been totally hiding behind. "I was observing! For _my ballad_."

The girl… well, she supposed she was a little bit closer to a woman now… wiped the blood from her sword and sighed. "I'm sure. But we are approaching the camp. I took these three by surprise, but I can hardly expect to stop and ask an entire camp of bandits to surrender. I will need your support."

"Um. Well, I… can try…?"

"… You are a bard. You have some access to bardic magic, I assume?"

"Theoretically, yes! In practice, I can… um… cast one spell. It's… it's called…" he winced, "Infravision! It… lets me see in the dark."

She sighed. "You can sing an enchanted song which grants morale to allies? I was led to believe that many true bards can."

"My songs traditionally just make allies sad."

"… Garrick?"

"Yes, leader?"

"I have been meaning to say this for some time, but I felt it was not my place. However, I have been… reconsidering my stance on such things lately, and I feel as 'leader' I need to take a more active role both in and out of combat. As such…"

"Oh, oh, are you kicking me off the team?" Garrick asked with a touch of glee in his voice.

"… You _want_ me to kick you off the team?"

"Oh, yes! This is rather more _dangerous_ than I was expecting, and I am… well, not so much _good_ at this. But I was afraid if I tried to leave, Mr. Moonshadow would stab me."

Sephiria clapped him on the shoulder. "You have a reasonably good soul, Garrick. But I feel that perhaps adventuring is not your calling."

"Yes, I was actually thinking that too," Garrick agreed. "I was thinking I might go south and try to marry a paladin!"

"… Why?"

"They're quite noble and beautiful, I hear. Amn has many orders just filled with lovely noble knights!" Garrick said cheerfully. "Oh! I know, maybe you should try to become a paladin someday!"

"… I _am_ one."

"Oh, really? When did that happen?"

She pondered this. "In name, some time ago. In truth, I think just a few minutes now. Please go hide in the woods, Garrick. I will come back shortly, or I won't come back at all. Either way, I wish you well."

And with that, she raised her sword and turned for the camp once again. Garrick watched her go, and smiled. "Finally, someone with a grasp of _tactics_ ," he said, going to hide in the woods like a sensible person.

* * *

 

Acherai stopped at the entrance to Tazok's tent, and signaled for Kagain to stop. "There's someone inside," he whispered, pressing his ear against the cloth. "They're… joking. Saying it was only matter of time before the rabble went mad."

The dwarf chuckled. "Friendly sorts, then."

"Probably not mercenaries. I expect they work directly for the people providing the money to fund this operation," Acherai murmured. "Which means I doubt they'll fall for a few charms and a bit of casual racism. We'll need to kill them."

"An' we do this just the two of us? 'Cause I don't see the drow, and… well. The elf and knightling ain't been a great help of late."

"Relax. I just need you to take up position outside the door and stop anyone from escaping," Acherai said, digging into his pack and removing a scroll tube. "Master Thalantyr doesn't guard his vaults as well as he thinks. This is a bit outside my ability to cast personally, but the scroll will work, and it's _very_ lethal. Just hold up the side of the tent enough for me to aim underneath… and make sure they don't get out of the cloud."

"The what?" Kagain asked, but Acherai had already begun reading off the spell scroll, the demands of the magic forcing him to incant it to the end. It was a spell beyond his power to cast on his own, and he could _feel_ it burning through him. But it was okay; that was what the scroll was for, to channel the power and focus it…

He held his hand out, the scroll disintegrating in his grasp as the Cloudkill was cast, a cloud of thick, brownish gas bursting from his palm and filling the tent with unnatural speed.

"Aye. _That_ cloud, then," Kagain whispered, watching the very, very poisonous gas seep out through the seams of the tent, and listening to the pained gasps and choking screams of those within. "I can work with this." He took up position outside the only entrance to the tent, hammer at the ready.

* * *

 

Tazok did not slow.

Kivan had put a dozen arrows in him, each shot one that would have crippled or possibly even killed a man. His arms and legs bristled like pincushions, shafts impaled deep into vital tendons and muscles. He should _not_ have been able to continue his charge, should have found it nearly impossible to even _move_ between the blood loss and the damage to his musculature.

And yet, he did not slow.

Kivan would have had it no other way.

"Does it hurt, Tazok?" he called back over his shoulder as he dodged between trees, sliding through underbrush like a shadow and barely even disturbing a leaf in contrast to the charging animal. "Deheriana made my arrows for me, butcher. Carved them by hand. I'll make sure you bleed by each one before you die."

" _Tear! You! Apart!"_ Tazok snarled, swinging a sword nearly as long as Kivan was tall and bringing down a decent sized tree with one blow.

Kivan cursed, rolling to the side as the branches scraped against his armor, delaying his frantic flight by precious seconds. He had faced the ogre before, known his power was inhuman and his weapon was heavily enchanted, but this was _absurd_. Tazok fought more like a force of nature than a living thing. He shouldn't have even been able to _move,_ much less strike with such force.

 _He's not immortal. You're letting the fear get to you_ , the ranger thought to himself. He could admit, with perfect clarity, that he feared Tazok on some level. Given what he had endured at the monster's hands, it would have been stranger if he _didn't_. But he needed to make that fear a weapon; wrap it in anger to smother the impulse to flee and in so doing, let it drive him to be cautious and fight intelligently.

 _His hide is thicker than a bear's and he fights with the adrenaline of rage. I doubt he even feels pain right now._ Kivan thought, leaping forward as the ogre brought his blade down on the space he had just vacated. _I'll need to inflict a fatal wound just to slow him down. Let us see what can be done about this._

He turned, jumped on the blade as it buried itself into the ground, and released another arrow directly at the creature's face from near point-blank. It wouldn't pierce his skull, even from this range, but a shot in one of his eyes would be a wound that even Tazok wouldn't be able to shrug off.

The ogre tilted his head almost imperceptibly, letting the black arrow slam into his helmet instead of his flesh. The metal dented and cracked under the impact and blood began to leak from the flesh beneath, but the wound was clearly only superficial. The ogre smirked and ripped his sword free from the ground with a single smooth motion, hurling the elf perched atop it as though he weighed no more than a leaf.

"Remember you," Tazok growled, his mouth split in a grin that would have looked more at home on a shark's face than anything humanoid. "Elf couple. Wouldn't hand over their gold. Killed two of my men. Had to kill you back for the disrespect, you know? Nothing personal. Fun, yes, but not personal."

Kivan pulled himself painfully to his feet, nearly passing out from the pain. Perching on the blade had been an effort to pin it, but instead all he had done was slash his own foot when the ogre had yanked it free. Running was going to be… harder.

The ogre smirked and began to walk slowly toward, him, ripping a fistful of arrows from his hide without even a wince and ignoring the blood that oozed from the punctures. "'Course, I see you lived! Tough, for an elf. Let's kill you again, see if it sticks this time."

* * *

 

Sephiria found a vision of Hell, and her charge halted in mixed shock and disgust.

The bandit camp was a charnel house. The majority of the population, at least thirty men and goblinoids that she could count dead or dying, zombies and skeletons roaming among them. A few were still fighting, backed against a tent to keep from being surrounded, but most were wounded and the skeletons among the undead had proven dexterous enough to claim weaponry from among the fallen and fight with it.

She had raised her sword and prepared to charge the undead… not even hobgoblins deserved to be ripped apart by such horrors!... when a hand tapped on her shoulder. She whirled, ready to attack if threatened, only to see the drow woman raising a hand placatingly. "Stay your hand, _abbil._ The undead are under control."

"I… _you_ are behind this?! This abomination?!" Sephiria snarled. "Call them off! Let those men flee!"

Viconia blinked in confusion. "But they are your enemies, are they not? We are on the verge of victory."

" _Call! Them! Off!_ "

The cleric sighed, and the undead began to fall back in response to her mental commands. "You are wasting a clear opportunity, as well as the gifts of the goddess. I hope you have a reason for it?"

"Because it's _wrong,_ " Sephria snapped. "Men of the Black Talon and Chill! Flee this place and you may keep your lives! Return to your evil ways, and you will be destroyed. Do _not_ make me regret this."

"I already regret this," Viconia muttered.

"Do _not_ test me!" Sephiria said, her temper flared not only by the dark magic called up by her own comrades, but by something _screaming_ in her mind, her mercy sending shocks of black rage roiling through it once again. "Where are Acherai and Kivan? We need to be well rid of this place… and then we have _much_ to discuss."

"As I said, the paler of the darthiir is with the dwarf seeking the information you came for. The other… I know not. He was pursued into the trees by the ogre that commands this camp. I assume he is dead."

"And why are you not aiding him?!" she asked, fear overcoming her rage momentarily.

"Because I do not care. He made clear he seeks my death. If he seeks his own with even more effort, I have no reason to oppose him. No, should we not aid our more reliable allies? I have little enough concern for a faerie, but he has his uses."

Sephiria tilted her head to one side, studying the drow in a new light. She was not the mindless sadist that the tales suggested, true, but Sephiria had perhaps allowed that to blind her to a mundane form of evil in the woman's heart.

And perhaps she had done the same regarding another member of her team, as well. A charming face, hiding something amoral and empty.

She walked through the burning camp, her mind screaming at the brutality around her, and prepared herself to speak with Acherai. He would likely speak down to her, of course, tell her he'd had no choice, done the 'right thing', but she was well past accepting that sort of…

_Oh. Oh, no._

Inside the tent itself, Acherai and Kagain were standing among a group of corpses that were coated in some kind of thick brown powder, their hands still grasped in death grips around their necks where they had clearly choked to death. Four of them lay beside weapons and were clad in armor, and despite the pain of their deaths, they were at least enemies, but…

Lying at Acherai's feet, killed by the same suffocating poison as the others, lay an emaciated man in shackles, his face and bare torso coated in scars.

Acherai looked from the dead hostage, to Sephiria, and back.

"In my defense, it was not done intentionally," he said, "So please remain..."

He made it nearly halfway through the sentence before she charged.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Sephiria's sword slammed home onto Acherai's raised quarterstaff, the magically-enhanced metal coating the staff holding up admirably against the _very_ intense strength behind the descending blade. Much better, in fact than the elf holding it.

Acherai wasn't exactly weak, but he was built for agility, not for pure strength. The result of a lifetime _avoiding_ trouble rather than facing it head-on; thieves weren't supposed to get into _real fights._ As a result, the impact, coming in far too fast to dodge or parry, ran down his entire body like the hammer of a god, numbing his arms and pressing him down to one knee with distressing ease as the young paladin crushed him with sheer force.

" _Wait!_ " he snapped, stepping back and hopping awkwardly back to his feet, trying to ignore how _very likely_ it was that he would die if he couldn't make the lunatic stop this. She was too close, there was no time for spells, between him and the only exit to the tent, he _needed_ to get her back on the puppet strings before she cut _his._ "For Mask's sake, you need to-"

He was cut off, then, by her snapping his guard out to one side with a swing of her blade, and stepping in to slam her armored elbow into his gut. He fell, gasping for air and choking on the morning's meal it was forced back up, Sephiria raising her sword high, judgment in her eyes.

And midway through its descent, a golden hammer interjected, the magical weapon slamming against the flat of her blade. Lightning ran up the weapon, sending a painful jolt through her whole body and pushing her back out of sheer reflex as she instinctively tried to avoid the shock… only to find a jolt far more personal awaiting her.

She watched in stunned silence as a foot of steel, nearly a third of her weapon's blade, spun through the air and impaled itself into the ground, snapped cleanly off.

Kagain shrugged, his magical hammer still crackling with arcs of electricity from snapping her sword. "Sorry. Good weapon, shame ta waste it, but he makes sure I get paid and you're bein' a brat."

She gritted her teeth, holding her broken sword before her in as close as it could manage to a guard with its balance ruined so. "This was a gift from my first swordmaster. It was _special_ to me…"

"An' now it's a paperweight, 'cause you picked the wrong fight. Way o' the world," the dwarf said. "Don't bite the hand that feeds ya. They turn and bite back, and then yer doubly in the hole."

"He _murdered_ that man!" she snapped, gesturing at the corpse of the prisoner in the corner of the tent. "And you defend him still?!"

"Wasn't planned. Though if it was… what matters he to me?" Kagain said with a shrug. "A stranger, a slave? Worthless."

Sephiria quivered in rage, clearly on the verge of running at the dwarf again as she said, "Anyone who would call an innocent life worthless is undeserving of his own. You have had justice coming for a long time, mercenary scum, and I am _proud_ to deliver it."

"With a broken sword and the skills of a brat, what never fought for her life until a few tendays ago?" Kagain asked. "Like me odds just fine, kid."

"Both of you," Acherai gasped, pulling himself to his feet and coughing up a few drops of blood, "s _hut up._ We're in enemy territory. If you two really want to kill each other, I officially no longer care. But Tazok, at least, is still out there, so save it for a time when a berserk ogre _isn't_ going to charge back to his camp and find we ruined it."

"Taz… _dammit,_ " Sephiria hissed. "Kivan!"

"What _about_ Kivan?"

"Tazok went into the woods after him! Viconia saw it, she…" the young paladin shook her head. "I know what she is. I suspect you do too. But for right now, a good man is in danger and I need all of your help to save him."

Acherai narrowed his eyes. "And I have some reason to care about him? All of this," he gestured outside at the ruined camp, "was _his_ doing. Things were going perfectly until he interfered. So why do I have _any_ reason to dig him out of the hole he's dug for himself?"

"Because Tazok is clearly high in the enemy's counsel. And while I am sure whatever papers you might have found here will help," Sephiria said flatly, "will they help as much as taking one of your foe's top lieutenants?"

Acherai chuckled, wincing at the motion as he held his ribs. "See? You _can_ speak my language, if you put the effort into it. But just so it's clear, I have the trail and I don't need you anymore. This will be our final little adventure together, hm?"

Sephiria threw down the hilt of her broken sword and knelt next to one of the bandit corpses, lifting up his fallen blade. A bit light for her tastes, but it would have to do.

"Trust me," she said, looking down on what was left of her first weapon, "I do not wish to spend _any_ more time in your company than I absolutely must."

* * *

 

Kivan had lived this dream every night since Deheriana had died.

The typical elven resting trance of Reverie had been lost to him, leaving him unable to perform the normal refreshing meditations of his people. It was not unheard of for such to happen, in times of illness or due to grievous wounds... or intense grief. His soul was damaged, and he could not balm it. And so when he should have been in peaceful rest, focusing his mind and soul in the Weave of magic, he instead slept as a human might. And in so doing, he dreamed.

Every night was the same. He relived her suffering, her begging her to save him and the absolute anguish of his helplessness to do so. He relived the ogre breaking his fingers, one by one while Deheriana begged him to stop. He relieved the branding irons, the hooks, the beatings that left his face so bruised and swollen he couldn't even see his helplessly sobbing wife. But he could hear her. _Always_ hear her.

The blade slicing across his throat had been almost a relief, because for a time he had not been able to hear anymore, or see, or _feel_. He was left to do nothing but desperately hold the wound closed and focus with sheer, thoughtless _will_ on surviving at any cost. But leading up to that, the one thing he couldn't ever drive out of his mind was the smile on Tazok's face as he lifted Kivan up, and pried his swollen eyes open so he could watch the bandits take the very same blade to Deheriana immediately after, still wet with his own blood as it cut into her again and again and again...

Most elves who couldn't enter Reverie became a shadow of their former selves. But since Kivan was already broken beyond repair, he was actually quite pleased with the dreams. He _needed_ them. He literally could not keep living in this world, could not fight the urge to pass to Arvandor, without seeing Tazok's leering eyes and bloody blade every night, without feeling the torture, without _watching_ Deheriana fade forever.

The _hate_ was all that kept him going. And it kept him going now.

Tazok's blade fell, the weapon buzzing through the air, and Kivan kicked off the ground with this wounded foot, ignoring the pain that tore through him and the dizziness as blood flowed freely. None of that mattered. None of it would _ever_ matter. He was going to die here, he _knew it. But he refused to let that happen while Tazok still breathed._

The arrow was already nocked. He had been preparing to fire it when his foot had been slashed, and his grip was iron. He released it, knowing it wouldn't slay the ogre down no matter where it struck; the creature was borderline invulnerable. Every single shot he had landed had done no more than irritate it. But there was another method he had come to consider, and Tazok himself had made it possible.

He was feeling slightly dizzy simply from the blood lost from his single wound. The monster had nearly a dozen arrow wounds already, and they bled freely. His natural hardiness and the fact he, obviously, had more blood to _lose_ were slowing the effect, but they were alone, far out in the woods, and Tazok was hardly a healer.

He might not be able to inflict a single, lethal blow against the creature's strength and speed but if he could make certain the thing bled to death before he managed to find his way out of the forest...

The arrow lashed out, aiming for the ogre's booted foot and pinning it to the ground through the leather and forcing Tazok to shatter the shaft with a swing of his sword, stomping his charge barely slowed as his massive leg muscles ripped the arrowhead from the ground, his blade whipping forth with impossible speed to open another thin line of blood on Kivan's chest as the attack just barely scraped the archer, yet still pierced his armor like it was made of simple cloth.

And Kivan could not even feel it, just enjoying the sight of the ogre leaving behind a very satisfying bloody footprint.

* * *

 

"You've ruined everything, child," Jaheira said.

Imoen winced, and said in a vaguely hurt tone, "I feel like that's being unfair to me."

"You led us off into the wilderness on the errand of a hamster-wielding madman. And now we have lost our one and only lead to continue the investigation which, I must remind you, is the _entire reason for our group's existence."_

The two women (one woman and one _idiot child_ ) as Jaheira probably would have put it, stood in the main hall of Feldpost's Inn, in Beregost. Mulahey's documents had led them here, and they had come to the innkeeper, offering him a few gold for the room Tranzig had been staying in, and his silence in the matter of any loud, violent noises that might be emanating from that room in the near future. Only for Feldpost to chuckle, say, "Aye, yer not the first to want a rough word wi' that one. Shame the last ones drove him off, I know not where! A few extra gold always be welcome" and go back to washing his glasses.

"I admit that maybe, just _maybe_ , things didn't go exactly totally perfect," Imoen said. "But I think we still have a chance!"

"Really? Because _I_ think that our only lead has left Beregost for an unknown destination and has at least a full day's head start on us."

"But Minsc and Dynaheir seem well rested now!" Imoen said. "And I think Dynaheir might teach me magic if I ask real nice. An' I always kinda wanted to learn magic!"

"… Imoen?"

"… You don't care, huh."

"I do _not._ "

"Still angry, huh."

"If my husband had not developed an odd paternal fondness for you, I would hurt you _so badly._ "

"You, uh… you go tell the team that things are going great," Imoen said, taking a few steps back from Jaheira. "I'm gonna go… scout out the area."

"Things are not going great, Imoen," Jaheira said flatly. She had one hand on her quarterstaff, just kind of idly drumming her fingers on it.

" _Sorrycan'thearyagottascout!_ " Imoen squeaked, running away as fast as she could. She sprinted down the wide roads of Beregost, not looking back, and ducked down the closest thing she could find to an alley in this ridiculous town full of cottages and well-lit public boulevards, the space between two houses.

Honestly. What kind of city didn't even have proper alleys? Her childhood was weeping with dismay. But it seemed like Jaheira hadn't even bothered to chase and give the murder in her eyes an outlet.

"Ho there, child. Might I ask what pushes thee to flee so?" a weird old voice asked her, and she looked up from her heavy breathing to see a suitably weird old man sitting atop a barrel next to her. He had a beard longer than her hair, bright blue eyes that didn't quite look old enough to match his leathery skin, a burning pipe in his hand, and bright red robes that looked like they had probably been very good quality before someone had done a lot of gardening in them. She was 99% certain he hadn't been there when she'd closed her eyes to catch her breath.

"My friends are scary, mainly," Imoen said, taking it in stride. "So are you, a little bit, but I figure you're probably not a bad guy since you dress all colorful 'n such."

"Ah, the young. No matter how old I get, a charming lass 'tis enough to bring me back to younger days," the old man chuckled, puffing on his pipe again.

"Uuuum, are you hitting on me? Because I gotta be frank, I'm not really in a situation where I can be getting romantic right now, and you're… well. Really old."

The old man chuckled again, shaking his head. "Ah, yes, thy personality will _definitely_ be a help, in its own slightly unknowable way. 'Tis best I give thee a nudge towards her, then, I fear that things are not at all going how she'd hope, much less how Gorion wished. The world 'tis a cold, dark place, and a friendly face is sometimes the best remedy."

"Wait, what?" Imoen asked, blinking in confusion. "Gorion? You knew…"

"Hush, child, and accept a bit of aid offered in good faith," the old man said, passing her a scroll. He had not pulled it from a pouch or his sleeve; one moment he was not holding it, the next he was.

Imoen narrowed her eyes. "I may be new at this adventurin' thing, but let me be super-clear: I know not to take weird presents from creepy old men in alleys. 'Specially not if they're wizards."

The old man… old wizard, more accurately, of course… laughed heartily. "And the world would be a safer place if more people followed such advice. However, there be no harm in a simple map, and possibly _avoiding_ quite a bit of harm if it calms dear Jaheira. 'Tis up to thee how it is used, of course, but I have faith in thy judgment."

"Well, I guess I can-" she began, glancing briefly at the cloth map in her hands (and hadn't it been a roll of paper a second ago?), only to find the old man was gone as soon as she looked up from it.

"Ooooookaaaay…" Imoen said, blinking a few times and wondering if she should throw the map away and scream, only to feel something hard and evil (she could _sense_ the evil) that she bumped into as she took cautious steps backwards.

"Hullo," Jaheira said.

"Eeep!" Imoen squeaked in dismay, whirling and throwing the map at her out of pure reflex. The druid caught it without looking.

"So, then. We never finished our discussion."

"I… _swear_ I didn't mean it! I didn't know he was gonna leave, and I didn't know about the crazy old man, and I only threw that map to the bandits because you _startled_ me, and…"

"You only threw _what_ now…?" Jaheira muttered, unrolling the cloth and looking at it in some mixture of confusion and disbelief; a map of the Sword Coast region, lovingly detailed and pointing out the most well-maintained roads and safest forest paths possible during the current crisis, and marking a spot to the east of Baldur's Gate in red was a simplistic drawing of a campsite. She was half tempted to call the whole thing a hoax and wonder how Imoen could have _possibly_ played such a ridiculously elaborate trick on her…

Save for the top left corner of the map, the compass rose was not four arrows marking the cardinal directions, but a harp held inside the hollow of a crescent moon.

"Imoen," Jaheira asked, her tone barely above a whisper, "where did you _get_ this?"

"… Would you believe a weird old man in alley hit on me and then handed me a map and disappeared?" Imoen asked, wincing with each word as if she expected Jaheira to punch her in the face. And Jaheira _was_ tempted to hit something, just not for the reasons that Imoen likely suspected.

"Unfortunately," she said with a sigh, rolling up the depressingly-probably-real-map and turning to head back to the group, motioning for Imoen to follow, "I _really would_ believe that, a fact which fills me with great sorrow. Well done, Imoen. For a certain value of the words, mind you, as you may grow to consider the connection you have made this day to be more annoying than beneficial. Silvanus knows I do."

"… Yay?" Imoen said, not entirely sure if she should be happy or sad, from the way her pseudo-mentor was talking.

"No. No 'yay.'"

* * *

 

Kivan winced as the ogre's sword, once again barely dodged, opened a thin line of blood on his shoulder, but it was more reflex than anything. Wounds that would have left him helpless a scant few weeks ago barely registered, as if he was piloting his body from afar rather than living in it; when one _knew_ death approached, and welcomed it, it stopped to be a thing of fear and became a tool.

_Your life is an arrow. Drive it into his heart. Nothing else matters._

He turned the motion of clutching his bleeding wound into a reach for one of his final few arrows, using the second of Tazok's over-extension following his massive swing to plant the shot somewhere truly _vulnerable_ for once. The ogre fell to his knees, letting out a most _unseemly_ squeal of pain as the projectile dove into the side of his neck, and Kivan felt a thrill of joy at the first reaction he had managed to get out of the thing.

Tazok's thick hide and ridiculously corded neck muscles stopped the arrow from traveling completely through and severing his spine, but the wounds had _finally_ managed to snap the ogre out of his berserk rage. The loss of blood, the dozens of wounds, all of them were adding up now, weighing him down. For his own part, Kivan had gone outside his body, the warmth of his own blood coating his foot and flowing down his chest barely registering, even as his vision started to dim from the loss of it.

The tables had turned, well and truly. The unstoppable juggernaut and the hapless prey had taken on new forms as the ogre began to grasp how wounded he had allowed himself to become, and the elf stepped back, drawing one of his final two arrows, almost _feeling_ the hand of Shevarash, god of vengeance, guiding him as he drew the bowstring back…

And, just a second too late, saw the flash of cunning glee in the ogre's eyes as he whipped his sword-arm up in a blur and _threw_ the massive weapon.

For anyone, _anyone_ else, the tactic would have been suicidal and pointless. A sword, particularly a broadsword as massive as Tazok's, was not balanced to be thrown. To make it go any distance with any sort of accuracy was nigh impossible. Even the scant fifteen feet between them would have been impossible… for a human.

But as Tazok had proven more than once, he was far, _far_ more than human. Propelled by the ogre's impossible muscles, the sword tore through the air with the speed of a shaped javelin. It wouldn't go far, regardless, but… it didn't need to.

Kivan felt no pain, Kivan felt nothing but the need to _end it._ But the sword diving into his stomach was massive and hurled by an arm a thousand times stronger than his own. Even if he couldn't truly _register_ the pain anymore he was still a slender elf facing a _colossal_ impact…

His arrow went wide. And when he tried to draw his final shaft, he found his hands cold, slow, like moving through molasses, even as his mind _screamed_ for any weapon at all, and Tazok _smiled_ as he lunged _…_

* * *

 

Sephiria ran, fully aware that only she cared.

The world had turned against her, and she knew it. Not only had she lost her father and been cast into the wide world alone, but the first allies she had taken on were beings far outside her experience or morality. She was a _paladin,_ and had been duped into an alliance with beings motivated solely by greed and ruthless pragmatism. And the only one among them with any morals, the only one she had _thought she could trust_ , had proven so twisted by revenge that he may have done more harm than any of them.

She had always felt that deep down, on some level at least, most people were inherently good. Naïve, perhaps, but she _was_ a paladin and the very fact that gods of goodness and justice could exist and thrive seemed to back up that viewpoint. Certainly, people could turn to evil wholeheartedly, become monsters in human skins, but they were the exception, not the rule. Most 'bad' people were just misguided, warped against their better nature by circumstance and pain. Given the chance, given a proper guide, they could find their way back to the light.

She believed this. Despite the machinations of Acherai and the amoral greed of Kagain and the cold logical ruthlessness of Viconia, she _had_ to believe it. She _needed_ to hold onto something, to believe the world was a place worth protecting. Kivan was a good man, led astray, and she _could_ guide him back to…

To…

She burst into the clearing, the trail of blood and crushed foliage she had been following leading her to the end of the line, and came upon the scene of the final battle.

She averted her eyes, and tried to stay standing as dizziness and nausea twisted her mind. Not the sight, or the smell, she had come to be painfully used to those over the last few weeks. The _idea_ of it, though, everything was just so _wrong…_

"I don't know what you were expecting," Acherai said from behind her, his tone cold and hard. "But this was always how he was going to end up. It's for the best that you see it with your own eyes."

"Shut up," she whispered, closing her eyes. "A man just died, show some damn respect."

"You barely even _knew_ him."

"Nobody knew him. I think that's what makes me saddest of all," she said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "He had nobody left who cared. I never got to know him, or understand him. And I couldn't save him. Why can't you grasp why that would make me mourn? Are you that empty inside?"

He sighed. "I… suppose I can understand the tragedy of it. But I learned a long, long time ago that letting the death of someone you don't know pain you is a quick and easy road to madness. Best to focus on what you can do for yourself, and the people who actually mean something to you."

She opened her eyes, and behind the tears that still welled up in them was a spark of something just a little too furious for a paladin. "And how many people in this world, Acherai, actually _do_ mean something to you?"

He smiled, and the expression reminded her of nothing so much as a snake that had learned to walk upright and wear an elf mask. On the surface it seemed like a natural expression, but _underneath…_

"None who are still alive, my dear. None who are still alive."

She shuddered. "I am going to give Kivan a proper burial. And then I am going to return to Beregost and continue on my own. I… thank you for your efforts thus far, at least those which have allowed me to survive where I otherwise would have fallen. And as recompense for them, I will accept your word on the matter in the tent, and not attempt to exact justice for your crimes… _this time._ "

"Never doubted it. And for what it's worth, I do wish you luck, if only because our targets are one and the same," he said with a shrug, turning to walk away. "As long as you harry them, I'm happy to let you go. But _don't_ get in my way again."

The two stood in silence, her gaze burning into his turned back, and for a moment the tension was so thick that it seemed the tentative truce would break down simply by virtue of general disdain… before Acherai sighed again.

"Iron Throne."

"What…?"

"The group that was running that camp, employing the mercenaries. The documents we took confirmed them as the Iron Throne, a merchant cartel."

Sephiria narrowed her eyes. "And you are sharing this because?"

"Perhaps I like having you in my debt a little more, as insurance. Or maybe I just want to make sure the 'sword of justice' is pointed at the people I'd like it pointed at. Or maybe, just maybe, you've grown on me a little bit under all the irritation and I feel like being nice," he said with a shrug. "Choose whatever explanation you like. I doubt it really matters. Enjoy your work here, and let it be a stark reminder of how _not_ to go about things."

He walked into the trees, and was gone. Sephiria watched him go, and, with no other tools available to her, hefted the bloody broadsword and began to dig as best she could. The damnable thing was massive, even by her standards, and the simple knowledge of what it had had been _used for_ left her revolted. But the sad fact was that she was alone in the woods, and any tool she could use was something she would have to take advantage of. The blade was a masterwork, most definitely enchanted, and leaving it behind would only make her death more likely.

If Acherai could be vaguely pleasant, she supposed being vaguely practical herself was not the end of the world.

* * *

 

The damn elf had killed him.

Tazok staggered through the brush, uncertain if he was even heading back to his camp and the idiots who made up his weak, pink little army. He had been in enough campaigns, however, to know that if he was _not_ walking toward them, and more to the point the Cyricists who had taken the position of camp medics, he was not going to survive.

From the moment he'd killed the damn elf and the berserker rage had cleared from his mind, he had felt a brutal chill fall over his limbs. The thrill of battle, the rage, the _need_ to rip the smug little bastard apart, had kept him from truly feeling the pain of his wounds... but he had taken a _lot_ of them. He had killed enough men to know that losing so much blood you couldn't even lift your damn sword was a sign things were almost over.

Tazok didn't mind the thought of dying, not really. He had always been more ogre than human, and an ogre didn't claim a position of power without killing the person who'd held it before, much like Tazok himself had eaten Sarevok's former chief bodyguard in order to prove he'd deserved the post more. You couldn't live like that without accepting that it would someday happen to you. He'd just always hoped it would be something more impressive than a _damn elf._ Spindly-limbed little forest faerie dancing around under the moonlight? When he met Vaprak in the afterlife, he'd be lucky not to have his soul ripped apart.

He smashed aside a sapling tree, stepping through stinging thorns and leaving yet more of his blood behind on the damn greenery, his throat falling as he stomped into the camp, unsure if his vision was swimming because of the blood loss, or because most of the damn place was _on fire._ He let out a sound that was halfway between a snarl and a chuckle, simultaneously enraged and kind of amused as he said, " _Knew_ pink little nothings would fall apart soon as I left… ha, ha… if any are still alive… will rip them apart to make bandages of their _skin…_ "

"Hello, Tazok."

He turned, his eyes widening he saw an unfortunately familiar figure stepping from behind the half-collapsed ruins of his command tent. Sarevok, fully armored and his eyes glowing with that off-putting fire, looked upon him. He was a full two feet taller than the human, but he still felt as though he was being looked down upon.

"Boss… thought you left," he stopped, coughing up a mouthful of blood. "C-could use a healer, if your woman's…about."

"Tamoko is awaiting my return in Baldur's Gate. I returned because I saw the smoke rising from the camp… but whoever caused this is long gone. I wanted to kill someone for it, of course, so I'm glad you returned."

"HA! S-someone beat you to it, boss. Not long on my feet," Tazok chuckled, falling to one knee.

Sarevok sighed, and stepped forward, the tip of his sword lightly dragging on the ground and killing any grass it touched...but his other hand reached into his pouch and removed a potion, and Tazok felt a glimmer of hope. "Well. Gutting a dying weakling would be unsatisfying, so perhaps you can earn your life back. Tell me who did this, and be damn specific."

"Saw four myself. Elf, slippery little...cold eyed bastard. Drow. Dwarf, seemed...solid sort for a runt. And the wood elf who put all these...arrows in me." He stopped to cough again, his vision swimming and going dark around the edges. "Must have had more in the woods. Elf army, probably, or mercs he hired. Pointy eared bastards...always take things personal."

Sarevok's grip on his sword tightened. "That's it? No humans among them? A young woman, with bright red hair...?"

"Didn't... Didn't s-see..."

" _Damn!"_ Sarevok raised his blade, and for a moment Tazok thought it was the end, but the armored man just brought the weapon down on a convenient corpse, hacking the thing in half with a single swing. "First Mulahey, now this. I had hoped it was her, but nothing confirmed _again!_ Rieltar will start looking into things soon, and if Gorion's brat isn't the one ripping apart his plans this is all a _waste of ti-"_

And then, in mid rant, Sarevok stopped, turned his gaze on Tazok, and asked, his tone perfectly calm, "What _kind_ of elf was he? The leader, not the one who humiliated you."

Tazok shuddered, and not just from the chill of his blood loss. It was never pleasant to be reminded of Sarevok's real nature, his mercurial temper that could flip in seconds from berserker rage to cold cunning without any warning. Even to an ogre, a race not exactly known for their steady tempers, it was just a bit _wrong._

Of course, it was also a sign that no matter how hurt you were, Sarevok could hurt you worse, and when Sarevok asked you a question, you swallowed the blood and bile in your mouth and you _answered._ "P-pale one. Grey elf."

Sarevok _threw_ his head back, letting out the deepest, most full-bodied laugh Tazok had ever heard from him. "Oh! Oh, our father _did_ have a sense of humor! The odds are _impossibly_ small it would be him, but who else could it be but family?! And chaos will be sown in our passage indeed! Hahahahahaha!"

"W...what...?"

"To put it in merchant's terms? I believe destiny has delivered me a two-for-one deal. Well done, Tazok. You have given me a valuable clue, and these mercenaries were outliving their usefulness soon enough anyway. You have earned your life."

The ogre's mouth watered, his eyes locked on the healing potion... As Sarevok finished, " _After_ you have been punished."

The blade raised up and came down with lightning quickness, cutting through armor, hide, and bone with disturbing ease. Again. And again. And again.

Tazok was dead after the second strike, but Sarevok kept going until his arm was half-numb. Destroying the body so thoroughly would make any resurrection more difficult and expensive, but he had truthfully been only barely holding back on the urge to murder Tazok the entire conversation, so much so he had barely been able to keep his hands from shaking. Better to clear out his frustration now than allow it to build up and make his temper flare at an inopportune moment.

Besides...it was fun.

* * *

 

Sephiria walked long into the night.

Her armor chilled her to the bone and her limbs felt cold and heavy, but she could hardly stop. She was alone in the woods armed only with a sword she had never used in combat, and predators both natural and otherwise were all too likely to be around. Stopping to sleep with nobody to keep watch would have far too great a chance of ending with her not waking up.

So she walked. Working out 'west' had not been too difficult with the sun setting, and she had been going for hours. The Friendly Arm, Beregost...even a real road would be a relief at this point. She had to be getting close to _something._

 _Unless you got turned around. Because you let your moral high ground make you forget that_ Acherai had the map and compass, _you idiot child._

Honestly. Life lately had become one step forward, two steps back. Every triumph met with a disaster, every success turned on her until she could take no pride in it. If Torm was testing her, he was being rather awful about it.

_Sorry, my lord. No offense meant. Though if you could please see fit to bestow a boon upon your humble servant, she would greatly appreciate it?_

She took another few plodding, painful steps and raised the sword, hacking apart the underbrush in her path. She could not swing the weapon with much force, but it didn't _need_ much, thankfully. The enchanted weapon went through bushes and vines like they were cobwebs. And the very fact she could lift it told her the thing was at least...morally neutral, despite the former owner. She would probably still sell it, just out of awareness of what it had been used for, but at the moment it was a godsend.

... _ha! Perhaps a fine blade was Torm's boon after all,_ she chuckled. The humor was black and laced with a bit of scorn, but something positive was a good thing to focus on. Anything to ignore her broken party, her failure with Kivan, and the simple fact that she needed to keep walking and didn't even know how _far..._

 _So yes. Focus on the positive. You are alive. You are armed, and have your share of the group's gold. So when you get to civilization, and you_ will, _you can say a prayer of thanks and then buy a nice room at a nice inn and sleep for a week..._

And then, just barely on the edge of her vision, she saw the fire.

Realistically speaking, she should not have headed toward it. _Anyone_ could have been out in these woods, and they might well not have been friendly...may even have been agents of the very bandits she had just helped destroy. But she was cold, and exhausted, and increasingly realizing she had not eaten since yesterday. There were some risks a girl just had to take. So she walked, slow but steady, pushing her exhausted muscles as hard as they could stand, wishing only that she could go a little faster...

From the camp, she heard a female voice say, "And so _then_ Puffguts says to me, 'Oi there missy, we ain't ta be dying the roast pink, na matter _how_ cheerful ya think it is!'. And _I_ say..."

She burst into a sprint, all fatigue forgotten.

* * *

 

Imoen had just stood up beside the fire to finish her story (the grand finale, where the pink ferrets stole the soup, required some dramatic hand motions), when a gallumphing red-haired giantess with a sword burst into the camp. She had just barely a second to be as happy at the sight as she had ever been about anything, before her adoptive sister rolled over her like a cavalry charge and swept her up into a cold, painful, armored bear hug.

"Gaaaack!" She said, eloquently.

"Immy... Immy, thank Torm, I thought I would never see you again..."

"Ribs! Ribs!" Imoen gasped out, feeling something cracking in her skeleton.

"Thank Torm..." Seffie said again, apparently not hearing her pleas, or perhaps just actively _trying_ to kill her; Imoen couldn't be sure.

The rest of their party, frozen in shock with their weapons and spells half-readied, turned to each other in confusion. "M-my dear? Do you k-k-know what, erm, all this is?"

Jaheira sighed and sat back down to await the explanation. "Not at all, but since Imoen is involved, I suspect the answer shall make me quite angry."


	13. Chapter Twelve

The meal was watery stew and travel biscuits. There was almost no taste to any of it. Sephiria had never enjoyed a meal more, entirely because of the company.

"And then we went to a fort full of man-dogs!" Imoen squealed. "I would have been scared, but after I defeated that evil priest and his army of lizard-dogs, I had a lot of dog fighting experience."

She paused.

"That came out wrong. You know what I mean. And _then..."_

 _"Immy,"_ Sephiria said, trying her hardest not to choke from laughter, because she had never been happier to see Imoen and she almost physically could not stop eating. "You don't need to tell me everything right away. I'm not leaving again."

Imoen pouted. "You say that. But you left, and Gorion... ...and I have had to spend my time with these people, and Jaheira is _scary._ **"**

 **"** Really? She seems nice to me..." Sephiria said, looking over at the brunette half -elf, who was sitting out near the edge of camp staring blankly into space while her husband patted her shoulder comfortingly.

"Yeah, well, she ain't usually this quiet. I, uh, think she's kinda... _embarrassed,_ " Imoen whispered. "She, uh, kinda thought I was you. She's not happy with anyone right now."

Sephiria blinked. "Why did she think you were me?"

"... I _may_ have fudged some details on who was actually raised by who. Really, 's her own fault. She didn't even remember your name!"

Jaheira made a sound halfway between a sob and a growl.

"Well, being pissy about it don't change anything!" Imoen said, sticking her tongue out.

"Imoen," Sephiria said, happier to be exasperated with her sister than ever before, "why did you not tell the truth? They are father's friends, they would have helped you."

"... ... Lying seemed easier?"

Sephiria smiled. "I am entirely too tired to lecture you about Torm, so I shall settle for saying you are _impossible._ As well, I believe I am well enough to tell what I have learned."

"Blessed Silvanus, have mercy," Jaheira snapped, stomping back into the circle of the campfire. "Please, child, continue. I am desperate for business to take my mind off all...this."

And so, Sephiria, feeling safe for the first time in far, far too long, began to tell her story.

About an hour later, when she had finished, Xan said, "So, may I leave the group? I fear my life is dangerous enough without adding a bigger doom magnet than myself to the group."

* * *

 

"Cloakwood Forest," Acherai said, looking on his map toward the woodlands that Tazok's documentation had told them to look for. He took a deep breath, and smiled. "This is going to be _awful."_

 _"_ Then why, in Shar's name, do you look _happy?_ " Viconia snapped, the absence of any ladies in the group making her cheerfully revert to the traditional Drow response to males: Endless belittling.

 _Well, at least she is pragmatic enough to not do anything more than lash out verbally. Better than some women._ "Because despite myself, dear Viconia, I am _vastly_ pleased at the most progress I have ever made. And the notion that a hidden mine cannot, by necessity, have too many guards if it wishes to _stay_ hidden. A small, elite team should be able to pierce security and seize the overseer. This is _more_ than manageable."

"And the 'terrible' aspect."

"The Cloakwood. A hundred square miles of forest filled with wolves, tasloi, giant spiders, hamadryads, bears, and the occasional wyvern," Acherai said. "The mines will be simple. This damnable forest will be a _nightmare."_

"Yer elves. Elves like woods," Kagain said with a shrug.

"I am not an 'elf,' oaf," Viconia hissed. "My place is in the darkness, not frolicking in some starlit glade like an imbecile."

"The drow speaks for me, though not so charmingly as I would have put it. Such a trek vexes me. If we want to make it with energy to deal with the mines at the end, we need additional sword arms, and preferably a second mage if possible. Kagain?"

"Aye?"

"You have done sellsword work in this region. Where, pray tell, would you suggest we go looking for some extremely _violent_ people in the mood for a good payday?"

The dwarf blinked a few times as he pondered this, and grinned. "Aye, mayhaps a few ideas come ta mind."

* * *

 

Envy was a sin, and so Sephiria was in no way envious of the fact Imoen had managed to find a group of charmingly quirky but overall goodly folks, whereas she had been press-ganged into a group of amoral murderers.

Not envious at all.

"So then Minsc was all like, 'gaze upon my hamster!'" Imoen continued.

"Little Imoen speaks the truth! These words have often issued from the mighty throat of Minsc!" Minsc agreed.

"Gods above, so often..." Dynaheir muttered.

"And I assume they never committed any theft or murder, either," Sephiria grumbled. "Merely spent their time frolicking with quirky elf wizards and saving helpless dryads."

"I am not quirky, and do not frolic. Also, I genuinely do wish to leave the group," Xan said. "This woman is _distinctly_ unlucky. Admittedly, all people are plagued by misfortune to some degree; the world is a cold and empty place which amorally digests us all, slowly and surely. But her. She is perhaps the most certain harbinger of doom I have ever seen."

Sephiria tried not to growl. "Of course, as soon as I arrive, the group begins to collapse. Perhaps I _am_ a doom magnet..."

Imoen patted her on the back with far too much force, and then rubbed her hand as Seffie's back hurt the hell out of it. "Don't worry... _ouch..._ sis! Frankly, we should only have six people anyway."

"... Why?"

"Seffie. Really. The fact you need to ask that is just one more sign you aren't prepared to be an adventurer," Imoen said sagely.

"Everyone. Silence," Jaheira said. "We are coming up on the bridge. If the Iron Throne is truly involved in this, we cannot trust _anyone_ in the city of Baldur's Gate, save those too wealthy and powerful to be bribed or threatened them...and any such as they will certainly have their own plans."

"Will we not need a patron?" Sephiria asked. "There are only seven of us..."

"Six!" Imoen insisted.

"... Facing the whole of the Iron Throne. Certainly there must be someone who will ally with us?"

"J-Jaheira and I have some allies who may intervene," Khalid said. "F-further, we can generally trust the Flaming Fist, w-who act as the l-law locally."

"Ha! Mercenaries," Jaheira snapped.

"D-darling, you know Duke Eltan c-came highly recommended."

"He came recommended by someone _I_ would not recommend. The man is _impossible."_

"I t-tend to call that t-the right of the elderly," Khalid answered with a chuckle. "And y-you may notice the F-Fist are holding the bridge, so."

 _"Fine._ We shall speak to them," Jaheira said with a sigh. "At the least they will probably be less dishonest than Imoen."

"That was rude," Imoen said.

"We are going to ally with the Flaming Fist?!" Sephiria squealed. Yes, squealed. "I have heard _many_ stories. Duke Eltan is widely known as a fair and noble ruler."

"Stories of most rulers tend to be exaggerated, child. For good or ill."

"Indeed. For instance, the story of why people call me 'Scar' gets more exciting every time I hear it," commented one of the first men Sephiria had ever met that she had to look up to talk to. Besides being unreasonably tall, he was broad-shouldered, with the build of a fighting man and his dark beard was streaked with enough grey he was clearly good enough at it to live a long time. He gave the group a friendly smile as he stepped past the gatehouse and off the bridge into the city, but it didn't _quite_ show in his eyes. "And nobody has ever gotten it right. Imagine that!

"Now, then. Seeing as you all match the description we have been getting regarding some folks who raised a ruckus in Nashkel, how about you share _your_ story? We'll compare it to the ones we've heard, see how everything pieces together, and maybe even not arrest you all."

* * *

 

The reason Acherai valued Kagain and considered him the best possible companion was that he was, in his own way, reliable. He was unerringly competent and did every job that came to him with steady determination, and he didn't stop doing it until he was either done or felt that he couldn't gain anything from continuing. If you paid him, he would do it for you. If you didn't, he wouldn't. Acherai paid him, and so when he asked Kagain to acquire some like-minded sorts, he did it _._

And the reason why Acherai was in command of the group became apparent shortly after, because while Kagain was certainly reliable, he was not terribly _creative,_ nor all that discerning in terms of the blades he gathered.

"No. Not my way," the woman said, brushing her strawberry blonde hair out of her face, a gesture that would have been rather attractive had that face not been set in the most venomous scowl he had ever seen on a human woman. "A group with this many men is asking for a knife in the throat. I'll need assurances I can trust any of you scum to watch my back."

He was forced to admit he kind of missed Sephiria; this Shar-Teel was nearly as tall and similarly muscled, but where Sephiria had made it seem elegant, the new arrival appeared to be one rude comment away from gutting everyone in the room, then spending their money on ale until she passed out. He hadn't even realized armor could _get_ as absolutely abused as hers without outright falling to scraps. The other two crazies the dwarf had dug up, the orc and the mage, seemed workable enough (if rather overbearing), but this woman was _distressing._

"My dear Ms. Shar-teel..." He began.

"Talk down to me again, and I'll make you watch while I eat your liver."

 _Sweet Mystra, patience._ "Fine. Blunt we shall be, then. You have been offered one-sixth the plunder of an illegal mine run by ludicrously wealthy merchants. What more assurance could you possibly need?"

"One. Two. Three. Four," she snarled. " _Four_ men. Only woman in the whole squad is a damn drow. I know that every damn group I've worked with that had a makeup like this ends up dead. Horribly."

"... Because you kill them?"

"What did I say about talking down to me?!" she snarled. Did she have a tone of voice _other_ than snarling, really?

"I was not. I was just assuming based on the fact you seem to have presented no actual objection other than hating men. In general."

"Clearly the result of not meeting many," the red-robed mage said. "Few enough in these lands could be called a real man. (Indeed, none in this company, save perhaps the crazed barbarian herself. I shall watch closely for an Adam's Apple.)"

"And I _do._ For instance, I'd love to wear this squirrelly little bastard's head as a hat, and I _will_ next time he mocks me," Shar-Teel said flatly. "But more than the hate, I just don't trust them. They get greedy, rush in, turn on you if something better comes along. And then you have to cut off their pr-"

"Wow," Acherai said sadly. "I pine for Garrick, suddenly. Look, my dear horrifying lady. I understand that you are _horrible._ So let me be frank: I need someone to murder an awful lot of hired mercenaries, and my friend informs me you'd have a gift for that. I believe him, based mostly on the fact I think you'd probably murder anyone who got within sword distance anyway. Do you want in, or no?"

"Depends. I need proof you have my back. I need to know you're reliable."

"Fair enough. How can this be-"

She drew her simple, battered, but _awfully_ sharp-looking sword. "I'm going to kill you. Stop me."

"... Son of a..."

* * *

 

Seffie was only about six inches shorter than Minsc and definitely had the shoulders of someone could put a sword through both a shield and the person behind it. This made it kind of hard to remember, at times, that she was actually not any older than Imoen herself.

This was not one of those times.

"And _then_ the serial killer Neb was caught outside Beregost, ending his deadly rampage," she squealed. "And _then_ they defeated the bandit lord Markos the Red in the Woods of Sharp Teeth, ending his raids on the coast road. And _then..."_

"Seffie. Think he knows his own career," Imoen said. She turned to Scar, who against all odds had turned out pretty nice, and said, "Sorry about this, big guy. She's the goofy one, y'know? Hard on her family."

" _Immy_."

"What? It's true. The moment anyone in shining armor going on about justice shows up, you go all goofy! It is so hard on me being the responsible one," Imoen sighed. Jaheira, already unhappy that the two girls had somehow taken over negotiations, made a kind of choking sound at this declaration.

Scar chucked, waving off the protest. "Worry not, ladies. Believe it or not, enforcing the law does not win many fans. It's good to see such enthusiasm in the young."

"Indeed! Let the voices of the children ring out for justice!" Minsc declared. "Friend Scar, your words have touched Minsc's heart. Should you journey ever to Rasheman, know that you will be welcome in the Ice Dragon Berserker lodge, assuming Minsc is there to welcome you or has had time to deliver a reasonable description of you to the proper parties."

"... How...nice?"

"Boo appreciates your thanks."

"...Right. Anyway..."

"You can ignore them, sir," Sephiria said. "But, um, I really do think they saved the mines. I don't...have the documents anymore, but I know that the person tainting the Nashkel mines was connected to the bandit camp my previous group destroyed, so they wouldn't let me travel with them if they had been helping him!" She paused. "Not even Imoen, though she can't trusted around cookies or shiny objects."

"Dammit, Seffie, stop making me sound like a bird or something."

"If it helps," Scar said dryly, "it didn't take long for lawman's instincts to suggest your group was not made of rampaging criminals."

"I am not with them," Xan said.

"Really? Because I have need of someone competent and new to the city, and I pay well."

"Money is meaningless in comparison to the utter despair brought on by every waking moment we continue to struggle through an uncaring cosmos."

"Don't listen to him, we _love_ money!" Imoen squeaked.

"But, I fear we also have our own goals to pursue, you may recall," Jaheira said, standing up. "I apologize to the officer, but no more delays. We have much to do and little time to..."

"We would be happy to help, is what she means," Sephiria said firmly. "Anything for the good of the city and its people."

"And get paid! Don't forget payment," Imoen agreed.

"However, rather than a payment in gold..."

" _Seffie don't you dare."_

 _"..._ we would instead request the Flaming Fist's help investigating a group we believe connected to the Nashkel crisis. They are called the Iron Throne...?"

Scar blinked a few times, and that smile which didn't _quite_ seem real stretched across his face again. "Well. I have to say that making an accusation like that toward a pillar of the local mercantile community is quite an unkind act. However, if you were to, perhaps, investigate a series of very strange events at the Seven Suns trading coster, in the Merchant district, I would forgive your rudeness. They are, after all, run by a good friend of mine, who has been behaving oddly and running his business into the ground...something the Iron Throne quite approves of, them being competitors and all. Of course, I am sure upstanding businessmen would never be involved in such a thing. Unless someone were to find some proof, perhaps."

And for the first time in the conversation, Jaheira actually smiled.

* * *

 

"You _cheated,"_ Shar-Teel snapped for the tenth time, as the group hiked through the outer edge of the Cloakwood.

"You never said 'no magic.' And technically speaking a Dire Charm can be resisted by those with a strong enough will, so by not doing so you basically beat yourself."

"And I admit to some amusement that you literally forced her to do so. (Even if your casting technique is so sloppy it brings to mind a particularly stupid infant.)"

Acherai sighed. "Edwin. I can hear you speaking. Do not make me kick you out like I did...what's his name. The creepy orc who kept staring at my ass."

"An' why _did_ ye kick him out?" Kagain muttered. "Good sword arm. Good reputation fer slaughter. Built like a damn giant."

"First, because he kept staring at my ass, as mentioned above, and while I don't mind being admired a bit I do ask they be charming about it. Also female, and ideally not a giant black-armored murderer. Second, he wanted to drag us into another damn vengeance crusade, and after dear, unmissed Kivan almost killed us all, I am in no hurry to take _that_ road again." He paused. "Also, I don't know, I feel like he didn't fit. Does anyone else feel like he just kind of stood out in a weird way? It made me jumpy. So we'll make do with a smaller team, unless we meet someone useful in the woods."

"In the _woods?_ Why the Hells would we just run into more sword arms in the middle of the damn Cloakwood? _"_ Shar-Teel asked, her tone somewhere between disgust and confusion. Hey, it was better than a snarl.

"You mock, my dear, but it happens. Just ask lovely Viconia back there! Right in the middle of the woods, just as we needed a cleric's aid. I consider it a sign Tymora favors our path," he said cheerfully. "Or that most adventurers are wood-dwelling maniacs."

"Lookin' at us, guessing the second," Kagain said.

Shar-Teel turned to Viconia. "You tolerate this?"

The priestess shrugged. "I have few other options. Besides, for a _darthiir_ he is actually admirably drowlike. A bit soft and frivolous, but what surfacer isn't?"

"Gods, I may have to kill everyone here just on principle."

"A thought I share, my lovely," Edwin...well, _oozed._

" _Especially_ him."

"(As if the harpy will survive my own inevitable rise to power. Certainly losing the trail of the Rashemi witch has not helped my status, but each mockery they level my way makes the wrath of Thay more certain to fall on them.)"

Acherai smiled at Kagain. "You know," he murmured softly. "I had my doubts at first, but they will work out well. I have rarely seen a group of people so _thoroughly_ expendable."

"I do good work, boss."

* * *

 

The Seven Suns trading coster, with its glittering gilded exterior and the sun motif on its banner, was simple enough to find. Indeed, the only way to miss it would have been to suddenly go blind, as it stood out like a sore thumb compared to its neighbors...or at least a slightly tacky thumb.

"So," Imoen said. "Do we go in through the front door, or...?"

"Child, please. This calls for subtlety. To march in boldly through the front would be certain to alert our targets, whoever they may be, and only harm our efforts to locate this 'Scar's' supposed friend," Jaheira snapped. "You are a petty thief, you should know these things."

"Hey, I am _not_ petty!"

"Actually," Sephiria said slowly, "perhaps the front door _is_ an option. For some of us, anyway."

Jaheira arched an eyebrow. "You suggest a diversion?"

"Yes. Some of us pose as, perhaps...negotiators, here to buy goods? And while they distract the door guards, others may enter clandestinely."

Jaheira nodded, and while she wasn't smiling, that was mostly because she almost never did unless her husband was involved. "Sound plan. Good to see _one_ of you inherited Gorion's good sense."

Imoen elbowed her in the ribs teasingly. "Heeey, when did Seffy learn sneaky? I would have expected you to suggest we kick the wall down and rain justice on them or something."

"Oooh, Minsc likes this plan! Yes, he casts the votes of himself and Boo for the kicking and the justice!"

Sephiria blushed furiously and smack Imoen's elbow away while the smaller girl giggled. "I _have_ had some direct experience, you know. Possibly a bad influence or two on top of it, but one area I cannot fault Acherai on is that a subtle approach can often be successful. He was not intending it as a method to spare innocent lives, perhaps, but that doesn't mean I can't."

"... I thought you said he was a jerk, though?"

**_Elsewhere, in the middle of the damn Cloakwood..._ **

"Fancy meeting a team like this in the middle of the woods!" The elf said cheerfully, balancing a well-worn bow on the shoulder of his fine leather armor. "My name is Coran. Adventurer of sorts, and wondering if such fine folks as yourselves might be interested in an alliance to get us all quite a bit of gold? I need some additional muscle, you see, and well...who _doesn't_ need money?"

Acherai turned to Shar-Teel, and smiled.

"I will _gut you."_

"I didn't say a thing, my dear."

" _You were thinking it."_

**_In Baldur's Gate..._ **

"Oh, the _worst._ But an awful person may have occasional good ideas," Sephiria said primly.

Dynaheir raised a hand. "I may be a good option to lead the group in the main entry. As a wychlaran, albeit one of low rank, I am considered nobility in my homeland. It gives me a reason to be present few others have, no?"

"And where wise Dynaheir goes, so goes the evil-dispersing wind of Minsc and Boo, dispersing all evil before them. Like wind," Minsc said. Boo kind of chewed on his shirt.

"Of...course. Well, I fear I am not gifted at stealth, so perhaps I should serve as your second bodyguard, lady Dynaheir?" Sephiria suggested.

"Your blade would be welcome indeed, little friend! Minsc has not yet had chance to kick butt beside his newest ally!"

"We are...trying _not_ to do that, noble Minsc," Dynaheir said with a wince.

"Also yes!"

"Imoen, you are our go-to expert on infiltration, as depressing as the notion is," Jaheira said. "Find an entry point. Khalid and I will guard your path."

"What about me?" Xan asked.

As one, the group turned to him.

"... We...thought you left, actually," Sephiria said.

"You kept talking about it," Imoen agreed.

"Well. Yes, but I have nowhere to actually _go,_ as it turns out," Xan admitted. "I will not be welcomed in Evereska with half a report, no matter how obvious it is that I had no hope of succeeding. I need to remain in the Sword Coast and continue to pursue this crisis."

"Oh. Um..." Sephiria said.

"Just watch how things go and intervene when needed," Jaheira said smoothly. It seemed easier than actually trying to get Xan to be sneaky, as he had almost literally not stopped whining since they had met him.

"Are...are you trying to push me into the background...?"

"... ... ... Nooooo," Imoen said. "Now then! I see a house we can use to get onto the roof of the coster, so. Who wants to watch my back while I jimmy the lock? I got a good feeling about this!"

* * *

 

"So, Coran," Acherai said flatly. "I notice you said that you sought a bounty."

"Indeed, my friend! Fine pay for all."

"And that it was on the way to our destination."

"Convenient _and_ profitable!"

"And that you felt you could probably do it alone, but a group assured adventure and pay for all."

"Right again, good man!"

The wyvern chose the moment to swoop over them, screaming out an odd trilling cry as it flew towards the cave where it made its lair, half a bear clamped in the powerful claws of its legs. Where the other half of the bear might be was something not even Shar-Teel probably wanted to think about.

It didn't take a cartographer to note that the cave it was landing at was also where Coran was leading them.

This was the third wyvern they had seen land in that general area.

"I sense," Acherai said dryly, "that you may have withheld certain crucial details of this bounty."

"I am sure I don't know what you mean."

 _And that,_ Acherai thought, _is why I should never trust anyone who even slightly reminds me of myself._


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Acherai was not a moron.

Fighting a cave full of wyverns at melee range was a moronic thing to do. But, he considered, invading a hidden mine populated by an unknown enemy force was also kind of dense. He had been planning to do it, certainly, but only because he had few other options, and (bluntly) he had been planning to sacrifice Shar-teel and Edwin in order to improve his position if needed.

(Viconia could stay. He was starting to realize that yes, he _could_ find a drow physically attractive, even if she had the personality of mud. It turned out ingrained racism only went so far when she had _fantastic_ legs)

But then he had some time to think. He had some ideas. And an avenue became clear.

Edwin might still die, mind you, but one needed to be willing to accept that.

* * *

 

The Seven Suns was...wrong.

Sephiria could think of few other words for it, as she entered at Dynaheir's side. She may not have been a very _good_ paladin, but Torm had not yet seen fit to strip her of her status, and the building made her skin crawl. She could not say, specifically, what it was; some aura of ill-ease that permeated the building, as if she was being watched from all sides even though she saw no eyes on her.

And in fact, was that not a bad omen all on its own? A merchant coster should have been busy, with folk moving in and out at all hours. Why was this building so empty?

" _Approach, noble merchants! Approach and hear the words of Minsc's mighty witch as she seeks commerce!"_

Other than fear of Minsc, that was.

A door across the grand hall opened, and without fanfare three men entered. All had the look of successful merchants, at least; fine clothes, gems on display, a certain... What was the polite way to put this? A certain _roundness._ Everything she would have expected to see.

Instinctively, she moved so she could watch Dynaheir's back while simultaneously ensuring her own back was against a wall. Something was just _wrong._

"Welcome to the Seven Suns. We are not open for business. Please leave," the lead merchant said, his voice smooth and warm to contrast the blunt dismissal.

Dynaheir drew herself imperiously to her full height (which nearly made Sephiria laugh out loud because the woman was still a foot shorter than both her 'bodyguards,' at _least_ ) and said, "I have come far, good man, to foster relations 'tween Rasheman and the peoples of this region. 'Tis appalling to consider you would turn away a diplomat without even hearing her proposal."

"Be that as it may, the Seven Suns is not open for business. We are...reconsolidating our resources, and taking no new clients, nor funding new caravans. Even if we were, trade routes to Rasheman hold no interest to us. Perhaps go speak with the Iron Throne?"

Dynaheir arched an eyebrow. "You send me to your competitors?"

The man smiled. "Our influence does not stretch as far as Rasheman, we have no agents or caravan routes to that distant land. The Iron Throne does. They can help you. We cannot. Please leave."

The merchants turned to leave without another word, the height of rudeness had Dynaheir actually been a negotiator. More to the point, Imoen would have likely only just started her infiltration. They needed to keep attention on themselves, because something was _very off._

"Please, sirs," she said, taking a risk. "My father, Gorion, often spoke of the fairness and savvy of your coster. Are you sure you cannot aid my lady? She has come so far."

The three men stopped. As one, they turned and favored the young paladin with identical smiles. "Well, then. A personal referral from an old friend. That changes much," the leader said, and Sephiria could not help but feel like a mouse that had just made too much noise near a cat. "Please, follow us."

"And close the door behind you, if you don't mind."

* * *

 

Drasus had worked for Rieltar as a merc for a long time, and he knew the score. Do your job, do it well, and don't piss off the boss or his creepy son, and you'll be paid ridiculously well and be allowed to do anything you want.

Guard an iron mine? Worked for him, pay was pay. The workers were slaves and and the mine was illegal? It was fine, Drasus had no morals. Kill or enslave any adventurers that happened by, especially a red-haired girl? Drasus hated women, children, and especially female children. Too whiny for his tastes. Always screamed when you killed them to take their money.

And so Drasus stood near the bridge into the palisade surrounding the mines with his boys. It was pretty good work; nice weather, good trees. They had killed a few druids the other day, that was always fun. And carrier pigeon had brought a note; pay was doubled if they gutted the brat who had taken down Tazok. Overall, Drasus and his boys were having a good day.

Right up until two elves, one with dark hair and a nasty smirk, and one with weird eye makeup, both covered in blood, ran out of the woods, threw something at their feet, and ran away, melting into the shadows with hardly a ripple in the leaves.

"The Hells?" Drasus said.

"Were those elves?" Genthore, his second in command, asked. "We need to kill 'em, they saw the mine."

"How we gonna _find_ them, ye arse? Damn tree-lovers move through a forest like squirrels," Drasus snapped. "Kysus! What did they drop? Make sure it ain't some magic trap."

The mercenary band's mage knelt over the strange, damp object. "Not at all. In fact...rather disgustingly it, it appears to be little more than a half-eaten chunk of deer carcass."

Drasus blinked. "... Hells. Kysus, what _ate_ it?"

There was a loud, trilling shriek overhead, and Drasus heard the flapping of great, leathery wings as the first wyvern descended like lightning. Kysus never even had time to scream.

Drasus did, however, calling out the alarm, calling for archers and medics to the surface. A quick glance up confirmed at least three more of the damn things, full-grown and _furious._

_Not how I wanted to find the answer to my question._

* * *

 

*Imoen giggled as the lock slid open. "Told ya I had it."

"Imoen, please. Stop. Talking so loud." Jaheira hissed.

"Jarry, really, whispering carries further than normal talking. It's magic. Or science? I forget which."

"That is c-correct, Imoen, but volume is still a concern," Khalid said.

"As if I could be louder than Minsc," Imoen said, rolling her eyes. "Here, help me steal stuff. Look at all these contracts! Routes to Sembia, Cormyr, Waterdeep... bet we could ransom them real good to someone."

Jaheira arced an eyebrow.

"Could! I said _could,"_ Imoen added quickly. "But anyway, look. All these documents are like, old. The parchment's going yellow, and the cabinet is all covered in dust. They haven't done any new business in months."

"Suspicious, but it could be proof of simple failure as easily as foul play," Jaheira said. "We need more."

Imoen, choosing another door, began to work at the lock with a pair of picks. "Well. This door has blood on it, does that help?"

" _What?!"_

Imoen smirked. "Jaheira. Please. Stop talking so loud."

Jaheira growled under her breath as Khalid patted her on the back. "P-please elaborate, Imoen."

"Bloodstain in the wood, near the bottom there. Like the door was opened into a puddle or something," Imoen said. "Dried out and hard to spot against the wood, but I remember how to check from that one time I thought a deadly murderer was staying at the inn." She chuckled. "Turned out he just liked to hunt in the woods when he wasn't studying. Bloody outfit was for skinning deer. I really regret getting him arrested."

Khalid and Jaheira said nothing, because sometimes there was nothing to say.

"Man, this is a good lock. And...yeah, there's a wire hidden behind it that will set off a trap when the door is opened. I can see it past the tumbler. I think we found a good door, guys!"

Once again. Only so much to say. The couple chose to stay silent, waited until the door clicked open, and followed Imoen down the stairs that was revealed.

They stopped at the bottom, entering the basement of the coster, and stared for a few seconds.

"So, um," Imoen said slowly. "Let's say that there is a pile of gnawed human corpses in the corner. And a guy covered in blood chained to the...to the wall. Would that be, y'know. Evidence?"

"Dammit. The other team is in danger. Stealth is no longer an option," Jaheira snapped. "I will heal this man. The two of you, get up there and warn them."

Upstairs, there was a crashing...followed by the shrieking, furious wail of something not remotely human.

Imoen winced. "I think they don't need that warning anymore."

* * *

 

Sephiria felt a bit like a fly that had just not merely been seen by a spider, but had actively chosen to taunt said spider's family.

The merchants, who she couldn't help but notice had still not given their names, had split up upon reaching the conference table; one sat at the head, while the other two took up positions on either side of the room.

Flanking them, Sephiria couldn't help but notice.

"Now then," the head merchant said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "We can begin negotiations as soon as sir Jhasso arrives with his retinue. They have been summoned, it should take only minutes."

_And they will come in through the only door, letting them surround us,_ Sephiria thought, giving Dynaheir a warning glance. The witch's calm expression did not waver, but she gave a slight nod to show she recognized the issue. "Actually, I feel we could begin n-"

"Your opinion was not asked," the man snapped. "Sir Jhasso is an old friend of Gorion. It is only in honor of the man's memory he negotiates with you at all."

Sephiria stepped back, ensuring she could block the man on the left, and said, "Interesting. Because my father was not a merchant, nor did he deal with them regularly."

The man twitched slightly, just short of a wince. "You yourself claimed him a friend of the coster."

"Something anyone who knew him," she said quietly, "would know as a falsehood."

"Well. I am sure you can discuss that with Jhasso when he arrives. He will have many things to say to you, I am sure. You have become something of a celebrity in certain circles," the man said. He tilted his head to one side, a curious motion. Like a lizard that had spotted something it wanted to eat.

"I think we shall be leaving, actually," Dynaheir interjected. "I find this atmosphere most distressing."

The merchant smiled, and his mouth stretched too far across his face to be natural. "I think you shall be staying. Our brethren will miss the feast, but that is preferable to letting you leave.

"Kill the apes. Leave the eyes for me, you know I love the texture."

And that was when Dynaheir, smiling angelically, slid a slim, orange wand from up her sleeve, leveled it, and said a trigger word.

The explosion pretty firmly showed how she felt about being eaten, thank you very much.

* * *

 

Acherai smiled as the wyverns tore into the guards in a bloody frenzy. The creatures were reacting on furious instinct at this point, lashing out madly with intent to kill anything that moved for the violation of their nest and not particularly caring that the mine guards had nothing to do with it. The men were putting up an admirable fight, and more kept running out of the mines to join the fray, but a single sting was a death sentence and it had taken them far too long to organize archers. They may yet bring the creatures down, and indeed one had already fallen, but perhaps a tenth of them would live to enjoy the victory.

"And there you go," Acherai said with a smile. "One wyvern slain, as per the terms of the arrangement. Now that they have proper archer support they may even bring the other three down. Good for them."

"Well. Not how I envisioned things, but it _did_ get results. Good show!" Coran said. "I don't suppose those chaps would be kind enough to let us collect the head from the fallen beast?"

"Well, we're gonna kill any that survive, so that counts as permission," Shar-teel said. "Anyone got a skinning knife? Bandit scalps and hobgoblin ears are going for fifty gold each in Beregost these days."

"You are a horrifying woman," Coran said helpfully.

"Good. Means you know better than to try getting in my pants."

"Well, I wouldn't go _that_ far."

"Hmmph. Inbred barbarians one and all. Wyvern venom is far more valuable, and far easier to carry," Edwin said. "(In addition, it will give me something to pour into the meals at camp when these imbeciles finally push me too far.)"

Acherai, maintaining a cheerful smile, sidled up to Viconia and whispered in her ear, "You, myself, and Kagain. Focus on healing the three of us when we enter the mines. The rest of these people are disposable."

Viconia smiled sweetly. "Please. You are _all_ disposable to me."

"Fair. How about this: He is our most useful warrior in terms of sanity, so his survival impacts yours."

"And you?"

"Clearly, I am the handsome one."

She actually laughed at that one. "Well, you don't lack for confidence. Were you not so sickeningly pale, I might consider keeping you as a pet."

"My dear, if you are holding out for a nice drow male to abuse, you will likely spend your surface life celibate," he replied cheerfully. Then, more loudly, he said, "Well then! Is everyone ready to move on in? This is going just beautifully."

* * *

 

"This is not going beautifully!" Imoen squeaked as the smoke began to roll down the halls.

The building was on fire, which she supposed wasn't a huge shock; they tended to be a destructive bunch. The issue was that she also heard, over the sounds of people running the other way, a distressing number of people heading _toward_ the fire, on the floor below them. Seffie might be big and lumbering like an ox, but she was a fuzzy bunny on the inside, and...

Imoen turned a corner, finding the steps down, and stopped.

She and Khalid had reached the stairs at the same time as what appeared to be two of the serving staff; a plump older lady in an apron, and a little freckled boy who couldn't have seen more than twelve summers.

They stared at her. Just stared. The building was on fire, and they barely seemed to react to the presence of intruders? You didn't need to be a master adventurer to spot something wrong there. "Um, Khalid...?"

"Back, Imoen!" He snapped, stepping past her, shield raised, even as the little boy hissed at her like a viper and charged. The fighter caught the boy on his raised shield and was pushed back, the impact stronger by far than a scrawny child could have managed, and to her distress, she saw the kid had _claws,_ that he was trying to dig into the shield with his damn fingers and rip it apart. Khalid thrust his blade to the side of his shield, cutting into the kid's shoulder and drawing blood, before stepping forward to slam the boy back.

The 'child' fell back a few steps, bleeding thick gray gel, and narrowed eyes that had gone hollow and quicksilver. "Hsssss...fighting meat. Back me, Thalsirel."

"We have our orders. The target is downstairs, and we are needed with the others," the old woman said, and her tone was neither female nor noticeably human.

"They'll devour her and we'll get nothing. Help me bring this meat down, and you can eat the big one."

"Hsssssss, _fine,_ lets just gut the damn primates," the old woman snarled, her words garbled by the mouth full of needle sharp teeth she had grown.

"... I feel like I missed something," Imoen said dully, as the creatures began to shift and warp, their flesh flowing like water into something _else..._

* * *

 

"Well, the slaves seem happy," Coran said cheerfully as a scarred, emaciated man brought his pick down on the head of one of the few remaining guards. As it turned out, the wyvern plan had brought an unexpected benefit; when there were over one hundred miners in the tunnels and only about fifteen guards, even the dumbest of the slaves could do the math. Mining picks and chains might not have been ideal weapons, but when you had ten miners swarming every armed overseer, they added up fast.

"And that matters why?" Kagain asked.

"Well, beyond the fact that slavery is vile? Letting them revolt is certainly making our job easier."

"Easy," Shar-teel grumbled. "I was hoping for some blood, dammit."

Coran turned to Acherai, and said, very slowly, "Where did you _find_ these people?"

"Recruiting for substance over style produces unusual results," Acherai admitted. "They do good work, and they haven't started randomly slaughtering slaves yet. Consider this a win."

"Ain't been a winner since I joined up with this lot," Kagain muttered.

"I am sorry, but is not your literal only motivation money? Do I not pay you? And look at this!" Acherai said. "We have started a slave revolt in a secret iron mine, and that is fine, but it also means the _mine will be empty soon._ Iron is in short supply, man. We can sell the location for a _lot,_ and the odds of starved, abused slaves beating us back to civilization? Through a forest full of wyverns and spiders and those ridiculous ettercap things?"

"... Ye always know how ta cheer me up, elf."

Coran blinked, and leaned in to whisper to Shar-teel, "Are things always like this?"

"Touch me and I'll stab you."

"... Yes, then," Coran said, stepping over the body of a fallen slave with an arrow through his eye. The bowman appeared to have been beaten to death with several lengths of heavy chain, so avenging him wouldn't be an issue, at least.

"Found the stairs down," Acherai called out. "We must be close to finding the overseer's quarters. Maybe the slaves can help us break in, or..."

He stopped, trailing off as he reached to the bottom of the steps, and found a disaster.

The slave revolt on the lower levels had not done as well those above, apparently, but not due to an abundance of guards. It had been stopped by one man. He stood among a dozen burned corpses, shadowy monsters flanking him on either side, a shimmering violet barrier surrounding him and his features blurry and indistinct...though a pair of icy cold eyes were easy enough to make out. The only other living thing in the room, a blonde-bearded dwarf who looked like his arm was only barely still attached, huddled defiant and doomed behind a cracked pickaxe in the corner of the artificial cavern.

The mage turned from his current victim to look at the new arrivals. "Breaking in to the overseer's quarters, you say?" he asked in a voice that promised horrible, horrible pain, "I fear that would require the overseer be _hiding_ in his quarters. He is most clearly not.

"My name is Davaeorn. These are my mines. And you are all in a lot of trouble."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Xan watched the building burn, and pondered.

On the one hand, there was nothing he could do that would make the slightest difference. All of his erstwhile allies were doomed, destined to suffer and die in this hideous blaze. And in reality, this was a blessing, for although it would be painful and terrifying for them, it would be merciful in comparison to the long, slow decay that was _life._

On the other hand, it was a rare person who would accept that as an explanation, and ghosts were real. The last thing he needed was to be haunted by Imoen. Yes, he would have to try and save them, even though it was only prolonging their suffering.

He walked toward the door, hand on the blade at his hip. He had inherited the thing from uncle Xemnious when he had retired from adventuring some decades ago, and had come to rather consider it a burden; Moonblades were originally supposed to determine the royal family of Evermeet, the elven island of refuge, but they had already _done_ that and so now mainly just kind of passed down family lines randomly killing anyone they deemed unworthy to wield them for no real reason.

Xan was not sure why he had been found worthy by the blade, truly. He had mainly accepted it on the notion that if it killed him, at least he would see death coming instead of being surprised by a more random doom. But he had drawn it and been accepted, and now the magical silver sword was an additional burden on his fragile soul.

But, he did have to admit, one that came in occasionally useful.

He strode through the flames, protected by his sword's magic, and glanced about. Rather surprisingly, nobody seemed to be trying to flee the building, even though much of the first floor had been consumed. Brushing aside some fire, he pushed open a burning door and shouted inside, "Well, I don't know if this matters, but a door outside is over this way! You'll probably still die, but maybe you want to struggle first!"

Xan had a unique notion of pep talks.

He continued walking into the building, hunched low under the smoke, and said, "Ms. Dynaheir? Are you and your giant man-bear in this direction? I have come to attempt a rescue!" He pushed open another door, and blinked. "Well, no, then."

The thing inside was about six feet tall, lanky and skeletal, without a single hair on its grey skin and no clothes to hide a lack of any visible gender. It walked hunched over like an ape, but quick study showed its skin was closer in texture to scales, and it narrowed snakelike eyes at him as he looked at it. Without warning, its fingers lengthened and hardened, becoming six inch talons.

"Oh dear. Dopplegangers, then? That does make things worrisome," Xan said, blinking.

"Oh look. Enough meat even for the rear guardssss to have a bite," the thing hissed, a cruel smile stretching its lips.

Xan sighed, rolled his free hand in an elaborate pattern, and spoke out five syllables that did not form any actual word but which made the room feel slightly colder.

 _"Hsssssssrrrrrrrrrarrrgh! My eyes, filthy meat! What has it done?!"_ The creature screamed, grasping at suddenly blind eyes. Xan stepped forward and, shuddering in disgust, held his sword about level with the thrashing creature's neck.

Black blood and some kind of thicker gray ooze began to flow from the doppleganger's slashed throat, and Xan sighed. "I knew it. I knew it would even more vile on the inside. Truly I have the worst of all possible existences."

The doppleganger made a noise somewhere between a scream and the gurgle of a drowning animal.

"Oh, stop that. This discussion really doesn't involve you."

* * *

 

 _So,_ Acherai thought, because it helped get past the fear to think something absurd, _the mine overseer is not, in_ fact, _a fat bureaucrat. Good to know._

Out loud, he said the far more practical, " _Scatter!"_

This mage was powerful. Summoning shadow monsters and the spells required to destroy that many people at once were both beyond Acherai's own ability, he knew that much, and therefore he also could not be certain what spells were coming next, and what defenses Davaeorn had in place.

So it was time to improvise.

Kagain and Shar-teel took to the front, the blurred shadows crashing against the defensive line they formed, side by side, as Coran nocked and released an arrow in a single smooth motion, the bolt digging deep into his target and sending the half-formed thing falling. Both Viconia and Edwin fell into spells, and the whole team was like a beautiful clockwork machine.

Except they had not, in fact, scattered as ordered, and Acherai was half-tempted to just let them all die when the mage sent his first spell against them and it hit every single one.

'Horror'. A simple enough spell, a favorite of bandit mages up and down the coast. All it did was create an aura of fear that coated a chosen area, causing anyone within it to be struck by blind, unreasoning terror. It was not a powerful spell, easy to learn, and...yet, depressingly often, it was also good enough.

Kagain shrugged it off, and brought his hammer down on the first shadowy figure that approached him. Viconia, with that legendary drow resistance to magic, continued her spellcasting without any obvious discomfort.

The rest of the team was a damn disaster.

Acherai would have enjoyed the sight of Edwin literally running down a tunnel screaming like a girl, but it was not, in fact, funny right at that moment, because it was accompanied by Shar-teel falling to her knees, murmuring something with wide, tear-filled eyes, and Coran just...vanishing. Even Acherai couldn't spot where in the shadows he had vanished.

And that meant half the team was just _out._ And Davaeorn had already started his next casting.

Cursing under his breath, Acherai fell into his own spell, casting from one of the precious and powerful scrolls he still had up his sleeve; not for him, but for Viconia. If there was one person they needed intact for this, it was the one person who could piece them back together after the bastard finished taking them apart. She found herself surrounded by a gleaming blue shield of light, even as her own spell surrounded Kagain and Shar-teel with their own aura of protection (if that was the right word for a Blessing of _Shar...)._

The spell protecting her worked perfectly. The spell protecting them...

Well, it probably kept them from dying, as Davaeorn laughed and his Fireball illuminated the cave, rolling over all four of the intruding adventurers.

* * *

 

 _Why,_ Sephiria thought, _must everything come back to crazed monsters?_

She stepped into the flame, ignoring the pain as she lashed down her blade, slashing the arm off an approaching monstrosity as she pushed down the hall. "Follow me! They are strong, but no more durable than men! We can best them!"

" _New little friend speaks the LANGUAGE OF MINSC!"_ Minsc roared with glee, his own sword slamming straight out to impale the creature she had 'disarmed' directly through the head. Then he swung _down,_ and...

It was messy, to say the least.

"Be happy Minsc is our ally," Dynaheir said dryly. "Alas, he is no tracker and the halls of this vile den art twisted indeed. Finding our path out is difficult, and these creatures seem here in force. Perhaps we could break a wall?"

Sephria shook her head no, and held out a hand to grab Minsc before he actually _did_ it. "No. The structure is already compromised, I'll not risk it collapsing until I am sure Imoen is safely outside."

Dynaheir winced at the sight of smoke leaking from under the door ahead of them. "And yet, we may have no choice. My spells may have kept the worst of the flames from us, but the smoke..."

"We will survive. I refuse to let a simple fire stop me after I have come this far," Sephiria said flatly, pressing open the door. Backdraft rolled over her, heat and flame that pierced even the magical ward against fire Dynaheir had cast. Pain echoed through her; she could hardly see, barely breathe.

She stepped forward anyway, and continued to the stairs up, hoping against hope to find someone there who wouldn't be yet another killer in disguise.

She found Khalid, coated from head to toe in grey-green blood, stepping rapidly in to slice her head off.

* * *

 

_Oh gods._

Acherai leaned against a wall, his clothes mostly ash and the skin under them not much better. He felt very little pain, mostly just coldness, which was a terrible, terrible sign. He could barely see the others, so he didn't know if they fared better. He just knew that Davaeorn stepped out of the inferno untouched, smiling with a distressing amount of glee, and as far as he could tell only Viconia would be standing against him at this point.

That was...bad.

**_Kill him_ ** _._

_Of course I need to kill him. How? His powers are so far beyond mine he might as well be a god for all the hope I have of matching him. I can't even move. I can't feel my hands, I can't even open my mouth to speak. There's nothing but cold..._

**_You know how. Murder is a part of what you are._ **

_I can't move..._

_Can barely breathe..._

_But murder. Is a part._

**_Of who I am._ **

_I'm going to survive. I_ always _survive. **And if I have to eat the world alive to do it, that is someone else's problem.**_

He raised his hand despite the fact he couldn't even feel himself doing it, and for the first time since killing Nimbul with it, he tapped the power Sephiria had awoken (or had it just felt her own power and woken up in sympathy?).

His body instantly erupted in pain, and it felt _right._ It was not the pain of dying, but the pain of dead flesh becoming alive enough to _feel_ again...and it was matched by a snarl of shocked agony from Davaeorn as his life was stolen to accomplish this.

 _It's not enough_. _I'm still hurt. **He's still alive.**_

He raised his hands, the spell he cast simple and quick; invisibility, among the most basic of illusions. But one that would disguise him well as he did the one thing no sane mage would ever do.

Each step agony, he sprinted at his target, his scarred face twisted into a wolfish grin.

* * *

 

The attack came with lightning speed and the accuracy of a veteran warrior. Khalid's sword would slide past her guard and open her throat in a single perfect move, and she would die in minutes, well before a healer arrived. It wasn't his fault, really; visibility was poor and he had clearly just left combat, he had every reason to attack the first thing he saw.

And yet, disturbingly enough, she wanted to kill him for it anyway. She _wanted_ to, in her bones. She saw the counter in her mind; raise her shoulder, catch the blade on metal, muscle, and bone, while bringing her own sword up, a strike to the midsection... **_Not much force behind it from that angle, but it is a stroke to soft tissue. Just need to pierce the armor, and then nothing but organs and blood until you reach his spine..._**

 _Oh, get stuffed. I will not kill a good man for my own benefit,_ rather absurdly proud at her ability to even think that.

Of course, the general _idea_ wasn't bad, as far as counters went, so...

Ignoring the screaming in her mind, she raised her shoulder and twisted her body, catching the blade on metal instead of flesh. It dug in, but rather than jerk away, she tensed her arm, trapping the weapon in her upper arm. And then she _did_ strike out; not with the blade, but when she slammed the pommel of her own weapon into Khalid's solar plexus.

Hard.

The man fell to his knees, coughing violently for several seconds. After nearly hacking his lungs out, he managed to gasp. "A-ah. I a-apol...apologize. Dopplegangers, a-all over."

"Yes, we have met our share," Sephiria said, helping him up even as Imoen peeked her head out of the stairwell. "I am sorry I struck you."

"N-no, child. You saved y-your own life, I could hardly fault that," Khalid said, smiling...and wincing. "N-now I just hope you did not break a r-rib. Q-quite a sword arm you have."

"... Damn, Seffie. You like...adventured," Imoen said, apparently not sure how to process this development. She had always been vaguely aware that Sephiria could be dangerous if she tried, but the older girl was such a...well, not to be rude, but kind of a doof? And yet, here she was; on the receiving end of an attack from Khalid, and the one cradling a broken rib was him.

Huh.

A door down the hall fell off its hinges, and Xan stepped in with them, coughing smoke out of his lungs. He looked up at them, and oh my he looked _so annoyed._

_"The building is on fire, why are you all still here?!"_

If a band of warriors fleeing death could look childishly embarrassed, this one did.

"I swear, I should have just found a ship home, but noooo. My better nature shall doom me, for certain," Xan said sadly. "Well, I do have a way out for you, so follow me. This building is a bit of a maze, and there is quite a lot of fire."

"... Thanks?" Imoen said.

"Oh, _do_ shut up."

(*)

Viconia was not sure what she was seeing, precisely.

She was devoting all her power to trying to get the dwarf back on his feet; despite her sniping with the darthiir leader, she actually did see quite a bit of wisdom in keeping a thick shield between herself and the enemy. So she was deep in a prayer to Shar when said faerie launched his counterattack, and rather unprepared.

Because even she had to admit it was...beyond expectations.

She had seen spells to drain life before; many drow wizards used them as a pragmatic way to heal wounds without the aid of a cleric. All you needed to perform one, after all, was your hands, your mouth, and an unlucky slave. But Acherai...

There was no spell. It was more like he had reached out and _dragged_ the life out of Davaeorn with an effort of will. Psionics, perhaps? But he'd shown no sign of such a power, and drow could _always_ spot the signs. Between the mind flayers and House Oblodra, if you couldn't pick up a psionicist in Menzoberranzen, you were going to end up with your mind ripped open in short order.

This was something different. Darker. Shar's presence in her mind felt vaguely annoyed, even, which was odd. The Lady of Loss normally cared little for mortal powers.

 _Well, he is still acting as a guardian to me, so best to preserve him for now._ Shar approved of selfishness, if her will was a bit inscrutable in other matters. She had watched the elf vanish from sight, and saw the human mage prepare a spell; probably another one intended to strike a wide area and flush him out.

He didn't think like a drow, and it was about to get him killed. Viconia smirked with delight at the simple and yet efficient plan as her healing spell brought the dwarf back to his feet. She chose to add to it, another prayer already on her lips.

Davaeorn finished his spell, a cloud of thick, nigh-unbreakable webs to snare and paralyze his invisible target.

They accomplished precisely nothing, and Viconia revealed why when her own spell, a Dispel to strip the wizard of his defenses, also revealed Acherai.

Directly behind him.

The elf's hand glowed with magic, a pale, hungry light. And with a grin that brought to mind some of the Underdark's more hungry predators, he drove it into Davaeorn's back. The wizard screamed, his skin growing tight and wrinkled as the attack sucked the life from his bones, even as Acherai's burns grew more pale, fading from red to an almost healthy pink.

The elf laughed in exultation as the wizard fell forward to his hands and knees. "Oh. My. That is a _rush,_ isn't it?!" He asked nobody in particular, his tone giddy and mildly unstable. "Well, not for _you,_ but that's okay. I'm told the afterlife is pretty nice too, if you pick your gods right."

Davaeorn, snarling in fury, pulled a wand from his sleeve and leveled it. Acherai laughed and moved his hand in the gesture of a simple spell...

And an arrow flew from down the tunnel, striking the downed mage between the eyes, and sending him collapsing backwards, flopping pitifully as his nervous system tried to catch up with the fact he was dead.

Coran stepped back into the room, waving cheerfully. "Sorry about that. He had some magic against arrows, you know, had to wait for that to come down, so I took to the shadows, and..."

Acherai was across the room and in his face before he finished the sentence, and though Coran was taller than the other elf, he felt somehow lesser. Something about his eyes, and the subtle hints of a second voice beneath his normal tone as Acherai growled, "I. Wasn't. _Done."_

Coran blinked a few times, resisting the urge to take a step backwards. He had run into enough angry animals to know running just made them want to chase you. "Are you legitimately upset that I stopped him from using a wand, of unknown power, three feet from you?"

Acherai stood silently, clenching and unclenching his fists, and the look on his face shifted from anger to worry and back again several times before he said, "... No. Of course not. That was clearly the right call. Let's...finish here. Loot the body. Look for any paperwork, any letters. See if that dwarf off to the side is dead or not, he might know something. Just...just go. Everyone."

Viconia, watching intently, sighed a little. She had been hoping the newly-interesting darthiir would demonstrate a few more of his interesting little secrets before he was stopped, but there was always next time.

And she fervently hoped there _was_ a next time. D her general disgust toward her surface kin, well... it really _had_ been awhile since she'd enjoyed a male's company, and power was a hell of an aphrodisiac.

* * *

 

Scar sat behind his desk, rubbing his forehead. "So. I sent you to investigate the Seven Suns. Subtly."

"You did," Imoen agreed.

"And you burned it down."

"Not...intentionally," Sephiria said a bit weakly.

"Honestly, the building was an eyesore anyway. Plant a tree where it stood, and let a little green into this urban blight," Jaheira said with a shrug. "We saved your friend, and that is what matters."

Khalid winced. "D-dear, that is...a b-bit harsh..."

"Yes. It is. Particularly for the _people still inside!"_ Scar snapped.

Minsc raised a hand. "Ah, friend Scar knows not that the people inside the _blazing den of evil_ were fiends of the _foulest sort!_ Much evil was crushed with blade and boot!"

Dynaheir winced, sharing a glance of shared pain with Khalid before she said, "And more to the point, they were not _people._ All we found in the building were dopplegangers, sir Scar. A large colony of them, at least twenty."

Scar's expression went with barely a flicker from anger to worry. "Gods. Dopplegangers are...always a threat in any major city. Drawn to people of influence like flies to carrion. But so many...?"

"And the behavior was unusual for them," Xan noted. "Why take over a merchant coster only to run it into the ground? I would assume they would prefer to have the wealth and such, for whatever good it does them."

Scar almost smiled, though it was more feral than reassuring. "Unless they were there under the orders of another. Someone intent on destroying the Seven Suns."

"Like us?" Imoen asked, before Sephiria elbowed her in the ribs. She fell to her knees, hacking violently as the wind was knocked out of her.

"... Right then. I think that we can say," Scar said, "that the Iron Throne _are_ the primary suspects, as Jhasso's greatest competition and, well, having the reputation for it, to put things mildly. And I am willing to allow you to investigate them on my behalf. As long as..."

"... We avoid any and all fire?" Sephiria finished for him.

"Yes, that."

Dynaheir sniffed delicately. "Well, certainly no promises can be made. A lady must stand up for herself."

Scar sighed. "And you know, the sad thing is that I am so short on reliable manpower, that promise is actually good enough for me."

"... ... ... So would this be a bad time to say I kinda wanna learn magic?" Imoen asked. "Fireballs are pretty neat."

Scar sighed again. "Sad. And getting sadder all the time."


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Looting was normally pretty reassuring to Acherai. Particularly since Davaeorn had been _exceptionally_ well paid for his services; his robes alone were so heavily enchanted he wagered they'd fetch enough to buy a decent sized manor in the Gate, and they were far from the only piece of interest. Scrolls, wands, several expertly carved gemstones, and down one particular hallway near his (surprising comfortable for a slave pit) bedchambers, a literal chest full of gold.

Kagain had been literally drooling.

And yet, despite a very real victory and a major acquisition, Acherai felt no particular interest in the riches they'd unearthed. Even the papers and ledgers, real clues toward the heart of the conspiracy they hunted, gave him very little joy.

He had killed people before, certainly. His first had been at the tender age of seventeen, shoving a young guardsman off a balcony during a heist gone bad. But this was the first time he had really _wanted_ to. Not out of anger or self-preservation, but a bone-deep _joy_ at the thought of ending life. Inexplicable, insane, and yet _painfully_ compelling. Nearly as compelling as it was horrifying, in fact...

"I still say I should get the robes. I am a real mage, after all, not a trickster hedge wizard. (And calling you that insults hedge wizards everywhere, believe you me.)"

 _And then then are the perfectly natural urges to murder_. "Kagain, next time Edwin talks today, kill him."

"You cannot-"

"And yet I have! Starting now, unless you have a problem with the idea, Kagain?"

"Can I have this?" Kagain asked, holding up a diamond the size of his thumb.

"But of course."

"Then no problem here, elf."

Edwin stopped talking.

"You have the papers. We have the treasure. Lets just get the Hells out of here," Shar-teel grumbled. "Already made enough of a fool of myself in this hole. Get me an ale and someone to murder before I snap."

"Found yerself some winners here, boy," muttered the dwarf they had first saved from Davaeorn, standing near the back of the chambers with Coran as the rest of the group cheerfully ransacked everything. His name was Yeslick, apparently, and he had been the owner of the mines back when they had been filled with dwarves instead of slaves.

When asked if he wished to travel with them, he had replied, "Nah, ye seem crazy. Show ye where they keep the gold if ye promise to kill every one of them slaving Throne bastards what took over me clan's mine."

Acherai couldn't exactly blame him for that one, and he _had_ gotten them into Davaeorn's chambers, so it was a good arrangement, really. And dark distractions or not, he _did_ have what he had really come for, so there was a certain satisfaction to that.

He held the letters he had taken from Davaeorn's personal desk, and squeezed them tight. Letters from as high in the enemy's counsel as one could hope to find, and they had been so very thoughtfully signed.

_Rieltar Anchev, the author of the plan. And his personal agent, Sarevok._

_I finally see the spiders at the center of the web. It is past time to squash them._

* * *

 

The Iron Throne tower in Baldur's Gate was an intimidating structure, to be certain. Solid stone and easy five times as tall as any building near it, it loomed over the district with the menace of a bandit fortress more than a merchant headquarters. Which, given what they knew of the owners, was actually rather appropriate, Sephiria supposed. They disguised themselves as merchants, certainly, but beneath it they were little more than raiding Orcs.

This was it. The end, the place they could finally expose her enemies to the light of law. She closed her eyes, taking a moment to appreciate the gravitas of the concept.

"Big building," Imoen said cheerfully. "It will be hard to burn down, so good for us."

 _Oh, right. Imoen is the undying foe of any sort of seriousness. "_ Immy, we are not trying to burn this building down."

"Yeah, and we weren't trying to burn down the last one, either," Imoen said. "How'd that work out for us?"

"... A fair point."

"Silvanus, I wish it were less fair," Jaheira muttered. "Which is why the two of you shall not be talking to _anyone."_

 _"_ Hey, Dynaheir is the one who started the fire," Imoen protested. "I was with you."

"And yet I still feel your influence was at fault, somehow. This says much of the impression you have made on me," Jaheira said. "Now. Enough babble, the plan is known to us all?"

"Lady Dynaheir and yourself are merchants from Sembia, with the remainder of us as your bodyguards," Sephiria said dutifully, putting on a face-concealing helmet and tucking her red hair beneath it as she did. "Once inside, we are to look for the offices of the highest ranking on-site merchants in hopes of finding either a paper trail, or an actual member that can be caught alone and interrogated."

"Good. The team for insertion will be myself and Dynaheir, Khalid and Sephiria as guards, and the elf as our 'magical advisor,'" Jaheira began, adjusting the modest green traveling dress she had slipped on over her armor to help her role. She hated the flowing thing, but Khalid thought she was fetching in green and she could deny him little, the lovable bastard.

"You could refer to me by name," Xan muttered.

"Yes, I could. Imoen, Minsc, you will remain out here, making no noise and pretending you do not exist," Jaheira finished. "Questions?"

Minsc raised a hand.

Dynaheir sighed. "You will only be _pretending_ to not exist, my large friend. You will, in fact, still be here."

Minsc lowered his hand. Boo made a little squeaking sound.

"Gods, give us strength," Jaheira murmured. More loudly she said, "All right then. Heads high, smiles on, pretend you do not wish to purge this nest of vipers, and in we go."

 _And Torm willing,_ Sephiria thought, _we can avoid another disaster._

They stepped into the main entrance hall of the Throne fortress, a lavish affair that did not at all match the stony exterior; marble floors, flowers in crystal vases lining the walls, and a pair of pools set up to reflect sunlight from windows cut into the stone walls across the ceiling in a shimmering pattern of dancing light. It was a very beautiful building, and unlike the nearly abandoned Seven Suns, a busy one; the line at the reception desk showed at least ten parties in front of them, and a woman wearing a city badge of office was heading up the stairs already.

Were Sephiria not one-hundred percent aware of how evil the owners were, she'd have been quite impressed with the operation. They clearly were good at making money, if nothing else.

And then, of course, disaster happened.

* * *

 

Sarevok was in a bad mood.

He always was, of course. Rage was power. But this was less about fury and more about simple annoyance. He had grown to regard his personal armor as a second skin, and wearing the chainmail of a Throne guard commander felt like tearing that skin off and gluing wool in its place; both demeaning and uncomfortable to the point of being nearly painful. He was surrounded by merchants, possibly the type of person he hated most of all and a far cry from the mercenaries whose company he had come to enjoy.

And of course, and by far the worst thing in the entire building, he was currently standing at attention before the desk of Rieltar Anchev.

Everything about Rieltar enraged Sarevok, but the thing that aggravated him the _most_ was how the older man looked, oddly enough. Though they had no blood connection, they looked similar enough they _could_ have been related. Both dark skinned, both bald save for a neatly trimmed beard (though with Sarevok it was by choice, rather than his 'father's' advancing years), and sharing the same cold, sharp black eyes. They even shared a few personality traits; primarily ambition and ruthlessness, though Rieltar had _no_ idea how far Sarevok's extended. Sarevok was a foot taller and vastly more muscled than Rieltar, but the resemblance in other areas was enough that few had issues accepting them as family.

It was sickening.

Oh, it wasn't about his mother. Not anymore, at least. Truthfully, while he had cared for the woman, he was rather glad for her murder. The pain had taught him a valuable lesson about attachments: the strong could not afford them. Just look at Tamoko; the woman clearly disagreed with his plans and _detested_ that he took other lovers when he was in the mood, and yet her affection for him kept her from the edge of betrayal even though she _knew_ she would be left behind when he ascended to his birthright. He enjoyed her company and admired her skill, but that weakness of character kept him from truly loving her with all his heart, as he had when they were younger. He still valued and even, to a degree, cared for her... he had simply grown beyond any real _need_ for her. Or anyone else, for that matter.

No, what infuriated him was that Rieltar was _so weak._ Soft and pampered in body, limited and small in mind, his ruthless ambitions confined to no greater goal than lining his purse. Certainly, he had success at that, with great wealth to his name, but it was so _pointless._ Gold had its uses as a means to an end, but when gold itself _became_ the end then it might as well just be any other shiny rock. The old man had pieced together an impressive web of intrigue, muscle, and magic...but at the center of the web was a half-blind spider without fangs.

Sarevok was divinely inspired, the Chosen One who had been born with the right to define the future of the world. The thought that people believed so readily that he was the child of a soft, spineless thief with delusions of grandeur was repellent enough to keep his rage simmering all his waking hours. Not that he needed much help with that, admittedly.

Though if he had needed help, Rieltar was _great_ at driving his rage to new heights with every damn word.

"You are late, whelp."

"As I said, father, there were extenuating circumstances. Tazok's camp was nearly razed and he was mortally wounded. I had to investigate the area, and secure a cleric for his revival."

"Your subhuman pet is meaningless to our plans, brat! Your presence is _needed_ for the talks at Candlekeep. The Knights of the Shield will expect the highest-ranked executives we can field, and my chief of security _must_ be present. Yet you flail about concerning yourself with bandits and ogres when I have _summoned you."_

_Yes, because your summons mean nothing to me. You do not have the spine to enforce your will on anything but defenseless housewives, insect._

Calm. Calm was against his nature, but it was needed for a bit more. The Iron Throne was a source of wealth and resources he needed for a brief while yet.

And, well, after Candlekeep, he wouldn't have to share it with Rieltar. The joy of setting up the security details was that he got to decide who was in it. Rieltar got final approval, of course, but he didn't really _know_ the men...

"I am ready to travel, of course," Sarevok said smoothly, no hint of his searing contempt flaring out. "And security is prepared. I merely need to brief my subordinates on their duties while I am gone."

"No. None of that. Your... _cult_ can wait until we return. As it is we are already late. Follow."

Sarevok watched the man descend the stairs from his private office, and fought off the urge to clamp his hands on either side of his skull and squeeze until it split like a melon. "You are being paranoid, father. The Knights don't want a war, so they will be inclined to be respectful to us." _Until they die and the dopplegangers I replace them with return home to tell their masters what a warmonger you are. Don't worry, you won't be alive to see your reputation be tarnished._

 _"_ No, you will not escape your punishment with cheap excuses, boy. We are on the verge of a war we do not seek, and no failure can be tolerated. This has been a failure, and from this point on there is no excuse for failure, Sarevok."

 _A war_ you _don't seek, old man,_ he thought, stepping aside on the stairway as an Emissary from the Ducal Palace headed up the stairs to meet with Thaldorn, one of the other executives. Halfway there she would be intercepted and replaced with a doppelganger by one his acolytes, which Sarevok did admit cheered him up a bit. Enough to give Rieltar a soothing, "And of course, I understand that I must...atone for this. But you are being paranoid. Everything is still proceeding well."

And that was when a screaming armored woman charged up the stairs from the first floor, swinging a sword at his chest.

* * *

 

Two men walked down the stairs from the second floor as the party approached the central desk to deliver their cover story; one older and slightly out of shape in colorful, expensive robes, the other a giant of a man who towered over his companion by at least a foot and had the muscles to match, dwarfing even Minsc. It seemed unimportant, at first, but she still felt an odd sense of foreboding.

And then she heard the tail end of their conversation.

"... No excuse for failure, Sarevok," the older man had said.

"And of course, I understand that I must...atone for this," younger man replied, his voice a bass rumble, "but you _are_ being paranoid. Everything is still proceeding well."

And with every word, Sephiria felt her blood freeze in her veins.

_You know why I'm here. Hand over your ward and no-one will be hurt. Resist, and it shall be a waste of your life._

The moment he had finished his sentence, her hand had clamped onto her sword, and within an eyeblink after that she was charging, steel drawn and that familiar cold emptiness running through her veins. For the first time, she did not resist it.

_I'm sorry that you feel that way, old man..._

That voice ringing in her ears and her mind clouded by visions of glowing yellow eyes beneath a cloudy, starless sky, Sephiria did not even hear Jaheira's scream for her to stop as she leaped halfway up the stairwell and drove her blade at the giant man's heart.

* * *

 

From outside the building, Imoen's ears perked up at a very unwelcome sound. That was to say, women and old men screaming and running away from the building that her friends and entered literally not five minutes earlier.

She shouldered her bow and sighed. "Oh look! New record."

* * *

 

The man's counter was, considering he was caught off-guard and with his sword in the sheathe, about as perfect as could be expected. His arms snapped up in an 'x' shape, catching her blade on a double-layer of chain mail and forcing her slash upwards and away from his chest, stopping her from just slamming the blade through his filthy heart.

And that made the look of shock on his face very gratifying when she reversed the momentum on her attack, bringing her blade down against his arms. He was stronger than her, which was something she was not terribly used to, and she could not hold her weapon still against his raw power. But that same strength meant he was just as able to drive steel through chainmail as she was, and she felt her sword scrape bone before he was able to stop his 'counter' and yank his bleeding forearms free.

If she thought this would buy her any significant time, however, she was sadly mistaken. The giant man ignored the wounds, dropping one hand to the sword at his hip, but rather than drawing it dropped into a rush, stepping into her guard and slamming her down the stairs with his shoulder. She rolled with the landing, coming to her feet in time to meet a descending broadsword that slammed into her own weapon with such force she felt her teeth vibrate in her skull.

"Guards! Guards to-" the older man shouted, bracing himself against the bannister, only to be silenced by a far more commanding voice:

"Anyone who interferes dies right here. She's _mine,"_ the murderer said, his face set in a grin of primal joy as he pressed his weight against their locked blades, and Sephiria felt herself pushed back a step.

_Animal. Monster. **Murderer.**_

**_This is righteous. This is justice. He DESERVES to die for what he did._ **

With little more than a feral snarl, Sephria showed her agreement.

* * *

 

Jaheira was not caught off-guard often, in her own opinion. But this group, Gorion's _insufferable_ children, seemed to delight in ruining her self-esteem. Friend or no, she truly was beginning to wish she has never agreed to foster the headstrong little monsters, and the feeling was only growing as Sephiria, screaming madly, continued trading vicious blows with a seemingly random…

Ah.

It was him. She had shared her story, and with it the tale of the armored assassin who had cut down her father. He was plainer than described, but the sheer _fury_ of the girl's reaction…

"Khalid," Jaheira said conversationally, "the plan has gone awry. Help me kill that man?"

"B-but…"

"Gorion."

Her husband cut himself off mid-sentence, his eyes widening…and then getting colder than she had seen on him in many, many years, not since their days in the south fighting the slave trade.

This was not the time or the place, logically. But Gorion had been a friend, and more than that a comrade in arms. Any adventurer knew there was only one way to respond to the death of a party member.

"Back us up," Khalid said to the mages, before he charged alongside his wife.

"Must we?" Xan asked.

Dynaheir, already deep in her first casting, gave him a glare that could have withered a tree.

"Oh, _fine."_

* * *

 

Tamoko heard the laugh of glee down the stairs from her chambers, a rumbling chuckle of pure malicious joy that carried even over the sound of ringing steel. Or rather, she supposed she was hearing it with her soul, not her ears.

_Ah, my love, your blood betrays you again._

Tamoko had no objections to Sarevok's violent nature; quite the opposite. Her homeland, Kozakura, was one of the most militaristic nations in Kara-tur, and as a priestess of the Eight Million Gods she had always felt particular kinship with spirits of war and battle. She was as deadly with a warhammer as with a spell, and Sarevok's unmatched combat prowess and strength of will had been a great factor in her attraction to him.

But there was a major difference between the love of battle, and the love of murder. And more and more, Sarevok was falling on the wrong side of that line. To do battle against a foe of strength and best them with muscle and skill was honorable. To hack an old man to pieces, desecrate his corpse beyond recognition while his daughter fled in terror...

She sighed. Still, she could not abandon him or allow him to fall, and so she stood by him. And from the sounds of battle below her, he needed her now, though he would likely not admit it, so blinded was he by the bloodlust.

With a sigh born less of frustration and more of disgust, she left her chambers and strode down the hall to her lover's chambers. He kept no possessions or even furniture there, caring little for creature comforts aside from pleasures of the flesh; when he slept in the tower, it was in her bed or (her teeth gritted involuntarily) Cythandria's. The room reserved for his personal use, he kept set aside for...darker things.

Dark, but useful.

She opened the doors, and the smell of blood washed over her. "Rise. Your lord requires you to kill and die for him."

Six men wordlessly rose to their feet from their positions kneeling in a circle around the freshly murdered body of the ducal emissary who had recently ascended the stairs. All of them were smiling.

* * *

 

Sarevok felt every nerve ignite in agony as a bolt of lightning slammed into his chest, his vision going red with black spots and his muscles spasming madly.

He laughed and kept fighting, his blade turning aside one of the half-elves and slamming him into the other when she tried to step in to his flank, so he could focus on the girl in the armor. She was the one who _mattered._ Her features might have been covered in a helmet, but he felt the power in her blows, and saw the golden fire flickering in her eyes, just as he knew it gleamed in his own. Driving her on to kill, to rip him to pieces, to purge her competition at all costs. Their swords clashed again, and he twisted his blade against her guard to nick her shoulder; barely a scratch, not enough to even slow her.

He just wanted to watch her _bleed_.

"You're stronger than the last one I killed, but you are no match for me, little sister!" He crowed in delight, feeling a mage trying to cloud his mind and shrugging the spell off with the sheer joy of facing and destroying one of his siblings.

"You killed my father," she hissed, all righteous wrath and strength driven by fury.

He smiled as he met her blade again, the shock of metal against metal resounding in his ears and making his smile even wider. "I killed the old man holding you back! Your true father is _proud_ of you!"

"And yet, all of us here were rather fond of the old man," the female half-breed said coldly. And that was when Sarevok realized that despite her armor and trying to crush his skull with a metal-shod staff, he probably should not have _assumed_ she wasn't a spellcaster. Primarily because one moment he was not coated in a cloud of stinging, biting flies, crawling under his armor and into his mouth, and the next he _very much was._

With a snarl of frustration he raised a gauntleted hand to crush against his own face, accepting the pain in exchange for clearing his vision, and lashed out at the druid. The man stepped between them, and Sarevok's sword slammed home in his shield, splintering it nearly in half, fully intent of hacking through the barrier and the man behind it in one stroke. He did not make it quite as planned, but the smaller man's arm fell uselessly to his side, as broken as his shield.

The man, to his credit, did not back down, choosing instead to drive his longsword forward and through a hole Gorion's brat had opened in his armor.

Sarevok clenched his muscles around the blade, twisted his body, and ripped it out of its owner's hand, sending it clattering to the floor. His own blade, following quickly behind, was quite primed to make the half-breed's head follow it...

And a shock of agony rocked him, matched in timing with half the world going black.

* * *

 

The shock of seeing an arrow embed itself in the giant murderer's eye was surpassed, in Sephiria's mind, only by Imoen shrieking, " _What are you all doing?!"_

It was probably something about Imoen's voice that pierced the wrath surrounding her heart. What, indeed, _was_ she...

**_Justice_ ** _._

No. No, that...there was justice, yes, punishing the guilty, but this was...

There was justice. And there was the _law._ And far from slaying shapeshifting monsters, they had just tried to assassinate an executive of the Iron Throne, in his home, in _broad daylight._

No. Not 'they,' _she_ had done this. Flouted not merely law but basic common sense. Given in to her worst impulses. And the party had been forced to step in to save her from herself, putting all of them at risk.

She could practically smell Kivan's blood on the air, and realized with a hollow ache in her heart that she had not learned a damn thing from his end. _Just Tyr and Faithful Torm have mercy._

Andthen she was reminded the gods, even those of goodness, rarely bothered to give mercy.

Smoothly, too smoothly to be human, Sarevok stood. Imoen's arrow still sticking out from his ruined right eye, he _smiled_ , an expression disturbing for how _serene_ it was. His intact left eye burned gold, so bright it cast shadows over his face and lent his features an air that was positively demonic.

"Well done. You are strong among our siblings, and worthy to die in my name. When I rule, my scepter and crown will be forged from your bones.

"Kill her, my children. Kill them all."

And that was when the first spells tore down the stairs, flame roaring through the entrance hall and shaking the entire fortress, and Sephiria's world became pain. The last thing she heard was amused laughter, and she had just enough presence of mind to recognize that although it sounded very much like Gorion's killer, it was _inside_ _her_ _mind_.

The blazing orange flames filling her vision became blood red, and then pitch black.

**_Three Days Later…_ **

Keldath Ormlyr, mayor of Beregost and Priest of Lathander, smiled a bit shakily as the adventuring party deposited the reptilian head on his table. "Ah. Well. You certainly are making quite a name for yourselves in the bounty field of late. First the madman Bassilus, and now the wyvern threatening the northern paths."

Acherai smiled back, not very shakily at all. "Sorry about the smell. We've had it for half a week now and the damn thing is _very_ moist."

"Yes. I… I noticed," the priest agreed, trying not to look at the rotting head. "Well, that is 2,000 gold for the wyvern. And if you like, we have put up some new bounty notices outside the temple."

"Sorry, no. We're not staying in the region long," Acherai said, ignoring Kagain and Shar-teel they both glared at him for turning down the combination of violence and money. "We have an appointment waiting with the Iron Throne's regional director that I hope should be quite lucrative."

The man winced. "In that case, you very much should check the notices. Your appointment has been cancelled. Good day, sirs and ladies, and thank you again for your service."

"What do you suppose he meant by that?" Coran asked as the party left Keldath's temple to check the notices outside. "I fear I'm only half caught-up on your odd hatred of merchants as it is, but he made that sound quite ominous."

"Well, he was a priest, and they do love their drama…"

"A- _hem_!" Viconia snapped.

"… but I think it's likely the Throne has cracked down on security, given the setbacks they've experienced of late. Let's see. Hmmmm, this one looks…" Acherai began, stopping mid-sentence as he began to read down the written notice intently. Then he read it again, just to be sure.

Then again.

"What the _Burning Hells_ did she _do?!"_ he snarled, punching the wooden board so hard his knuckles bled out of sheer _aggravation._ Shar-teel laughed, and really the fact that he was too angry to hear her was the only thing that stopped him from spinning and putting a dagger in her throat. Kagain leaned past him to look at the notice, and winced visibly as he read:

**_The Flaming Fist, by the authority of the Grand Dukes of Baldur's Gate hereby place an official bounty on all known associates of Sephiria of Amn, the murderer of merchant lord Rieltar Anchev. A fee of 2,000 gold will be paid for each member of the conspirator's group, dead or alive. 500 gold will be paid to anyone who provides information to the Flaming Fist directly leading to their arrest. Lord Sarevok Anchev, heir of the deceased, has offered a bonus of 1,000 gold to any successful bounty claim delivered before the assassin's execution on the 25th of Flamerule, 1368._ **

**_Contact Flaming Fist bounty officers at any local guardpost for further details and images of the conspirators._ **


	17. Chapter Sixteen

She didn't know how it had ended, she just knew where she was now, and she knew she deserved it.

The wave of magic that had ripped across the hall had engulfed Sephiria fully, burning and freezing and crushing her in mind and body alike. She was already wounded and her will unfocussed; as the center of such a storm, she had little hope of resistance. She had fallen into blackness, and truthfully had never expected to wake up; oblivion, followed by disjointed visions of a sea of blood, of bone daggers digging under her skin. She saw Kivan's corpse, his last expression one of sadness, and saw it turn into her own face as she followed his self-destructive path to the same bitter ending.

She had Fallen, and she was in the Hells, rotting for her sins. It made sense to her, and she accepted it with as much dignity as she could… until the murderer's voice tore through her mind, along with a surge of very physical pain.

"You have been a _great_ annoyance."

Her eyes fluttered open, and with them came a wave of pain and nausea that convinced her once and for all that yes, she was alive. She didn't exactly consider that a _triumph_ at the moment… particularly because she was chained to a cot in a stone cell, her sword and armor gone, wearing nothing but bandages (most of which were stained uncomfortably red), and Gorion's murderer stood over her, his fingers digging into one of her still open wounds. The fact his left eye had been replaced with a black patch did not do much to make him less intimidating, she noted, and yet fear fell to the wayside quickly enough.

"Y…you," she hissed, unable to keep the toxic anger from her voice despite knowing better. "Why… am I alive…?"

"Because the spectacle you made of yourself has thrown my plans into disarray. The Knights of the Shield have withdrawn from our planned meeting. Rieltar is dead ahead of schedule, and I am made to look weak for letting him die before my very eyes," he rumbled, something gleaming in his one remaining eye. "I become the head of the Throne as planned, but before my agents have finished building the power base I need to take the next step, you _idiot child._ As much as I would like to snap your neck with my bare hands, I need to save face and repair my reputation as much as possible. That means the very public execution of you and as many of your friends as I can manage."

Sephiria blinked… and smiled. "You… didn't catch them. Hahahaha…"

"Yet. I didn't catch them _yet,_ " the man said, silencing her by once again digging his fingers into her wound, leaving her to hiss in agony as blood welled against his fingers. "And in the worst-case scenario, you'll do alone. You're the only one I _need_ dead, and it was your sword that the Flaming Fist found impaled through Rieltar's lungs." He sighed. "Shame they kept it as evidence. Tazok did love that sword. But one does what one must."

"You… killed your master," Sephiria murmured. "And now you… frame me."

"Obviously, though nobody will ever hear those words said. We gag capital prisoners in Baldur's Gate when they're brought to the block. Find the begging upsets the crowd," he said, his smile wide and something flickering behind his one eye. "I enjoy it, personally, but those in power must make allowances for their subjects. And I'm afraid you've pushed up the schedule on my rise."

"Rise…?"

He smiled, and dug his fingers into her wound again, _twisting._ She tasted blood, felt it pool in the back of her throat as she bit down on the inside of her mouth to keep from screaming her lungs out.

"You know, I _want_ to tell you. I want to gloat. I want to detail every last step of the plan and watch you _break_ as you realize you have no hope, and you never did. And then I want to snap your neck with my bare hands," he said, and she felt the need to scream once more; not from the pain, but from the sheer undiluted _hate_ in his tone. It washed over her like a cloud of poison, making the deepest rage she had ever felt seem petty and meaningless in comparison.

She did not know why, but this man despised her. So had known he sought her death, but she had assumed it to be impersonal, the result of some scheme she threatened. She had never considered the possibility that he simply _loathed_ her beyond all reason or sanity, and with that realization came a crushing sense of guilt that she couldn't control or rationalize.

He had killed her father to _hurt her._ He might have said otherwise, indicated that Gorion might be spared… but she could see it in his eyes. Feel it in the crushing grip on her wounded shoulder, the unthinking disgust that radiated off him in waves.

Had her father done what he asked, he still would have killed him. Just to make Sephiria watch him die. And for the life of her, she couldn't tell _why._

She didn't know him, had never left Candlekeep. She had never _done_ anything to inspire such a personal hatred. And yet she felt it, and something dark and sick inside her was laughing at her.

**_You didn't embrace your true nature. You didn't claim the power offered to you. Even at the height of holy rage, you turned away in the end._ **

**_But there are always others._ **

"I need your death to be a spectacle," he hissed. "A demonstration of my power and loyalty to my poor lost 'father.' A proof of my worthiness to lead this city of sheep and victims, forge them into my holy blade. Be happy I do, _dear sister,_ because if I hadn't, you would have never woken up."

**_There are_ ** **always _others._**

* * *

"What did she do. What did she _do!"_ Acherai muttered to as he looked over the map of the Sword Coast. He had it memorized, but he needed something to keep his mind busy as the team made camp.

"You have muttering to yourself since we left Beregost. It wears on the nerves."

He sighed. "Because I'm _annoyed._ I had a lead. I had a target and a plan. But now the city is on high alert and it will have clamped down on defending the one man I need to get near. So you'll forgive me, _dear Viconia,_ if I'm in no mood to coddle you."

"Oh, not _my_ nerves. It's mostly the mage and the barbarian, if we're being honest," she purred. "I quite appreciate seeing you so driven, if I must be honest. You intrigue me."

"I'm driven because I need a plan. Any plan. And nothing… _comes_ to me. Things are wrong in my head ever since Davaeorn," he snapped. "My mind isn't as sharp. I get angry more easily. And I really, really want to kill you all."

"I noticed," Viconia said dryly, sitting next to him. "It's rather like being home. You look at us all in much the same way my sisters tended to look at me."

"Then why are you still _here_?" he hissed. "Go back to the others. Sleep, eat. It's easier to focus when I'm alone."

"It hurts you because you're fighting it, you know," she whispered, running a finger idly along his arm.

"… What is that supposed to mean, exactly?"

"I'm a priest. I know much of spiritual matters," she continued. "Shar does not like to give knowledge. Secrets are her purview and she guards them jealously. But I know how to bit of darkness. Of resisting nature instead of embracing it."

"My nature," he said flatly, "is apparently to kill, kill, and kill again. To take life randomly and brutally for no reason other than the sheer thrill of it. I may not have many morals, but I do have standards. If I'm going to be killing someone, it should be my choice and for my benefit. Not because something inside my blood has decided it knows better than me. I will not stop fighting this."

She blinked. "I didn't say you should."

"Then _explain yourself_ ," he snarled.

"You're fighting your true nature. You're not _mastering_ it," she said. "The power is yours to use, no? Stop suppressing it, _focus_ it. Use it for your own purposes, directed by your own will. Do not ignore the voice within. _Tame_ it."

He blinked. "That's… that's an odd thing to say for a cleric. A servant by nature."

"Oh, quite the opposite. Certainly I must follow a code of Shar's choosing in exchange for this power. But I choose how to use it once it is mine, within her very open limits. It doesn't take long to work out that the gods rarely care about us so long as we pay them attention in the manner they like," Viconia said with a shrug. "I do as I will in exchange for doing as Shar wills. They intersect often. Otherwise, why would I worship her?"

Acherai blinked a few times… and narrowed his eyes. "Why are you telling me any of this? Why are you trying to help? I'm, as you're happy to notice, a male surfacer elf."

She paused to consider this. "Well. I've never been so dogmatic as my family would have liked. Blind hate and love of madness is considered a virtue in a priestess of Lloth, but I prefer to maintain a more pragmatic nature," she leaned in, smiling like a contented cat as she locked her eyes with him and ran a finger along his jawline. "So I see two benefits to be had from this, _abbil_. I admire power, and I appreciate the benefits to be found in allying with those who possess it. I believe that you could be the recipient of a power that High Priestesses would burn their own eyes out to possess, and when you have it I want you sane enough to remember I'm on your side… and positively disposed enough to remember _you_ are on _mine._ "

Slowly, he smiled. "I can respect that. And your words have some merit, though… how to do it, I shall have to work out. But what's the second benefit?"

She smirked. "Work it out for yourself, ssinssrigg," she whispered, leaning in close enough her breath brushed his ear, before pulling back suddenly and leaving him to watch her walk away with a bit more sway to her hips than the moment called for.

His smile widened with the tingling in his skin where her finger had touched. "Well then. If you're trying to be motivating, you may have missed a bit and landed at _frustrating_."

"The torment makes it more fun to me," she said over her shoulder, her smirk very knowing indeed. "You have much to consider… and even more to earn. Better get to it."

He sighed. _Well. Of any species, women are still terrifying and alluring in equal measure. But at least she makes good points in between using my mind as a scratching post. I've been approaching this wrong._

 _I'm Acherai Moonshadow. My mind is my own, you hear me?_ he thought, turning his mind inward to something cold and bloody. _I don't know what you are, or where you came from, but I am the master of my own mind. You want to live here, you do it as a subordinate, not a master, or you go the way of Sarevok when I send him to see his father again._

_And speaking of…_

"Kagain!" he snapped. "Come over here. I need two things from you."

" _Dammit, elf, if we're gonna be walkin' all night we need to be sleepin' all day!"_ replied a voice that sounded less like a dwarf, and more like a bear that had learned to talk.

"Oh, grow up. This won't take ten minutes," Acherai said with a sigh, ignoring the rest of the group as they were stirred by the shouting, and enjoying Viconia's chuckle as she pulled her hood over her head and lay back in her bedroll. "I just need the name of someone in the Baldur's Gate underworld who can be vaguely trusted and yet readily disposed of, and that little trinket we picked up on the day we met. My mind's feeling a bit clearer, I find, and I _do_ have a plan."

" _Go kill yerself, ye sleep-wrecking bastard!"_

Acherai sighed. "No appreciation for my efforts around here, really."

* * *

 

Scar was not amused. At all.

Angelo Dosan was, in his personal opinion, the worst sort of scum: A watchman on someone else's payroll. Scar himself had done mercenary work, certainly, and he wouldn't fault a man for taking coin to do another's dirty work if he had no other options to make a living. But even the darkest of mercenaries were supposed to honor their contracts, and the Flaming Fists contract and oath was to Eltan and, through him, the Gate. He was the law now, and so the Fist were lawmen, meant to be beholden to none but the city.

Angelo was a full rank below Scar, but wore a sword that would have cost him a year's salary. His shirt was silk, he had a gold ring that hummed with magic on each hand, and his boots and belt were both buckled with gold just a tad too shiny to be mundane as well. If he was living only on his official salary, then Scar was an orc's son. Scar had never been able to prove anything, of course; the thing about being corrupt was that you had the resources to slip a lot of nets. But he knew.

And so, being called to Duke Eltan's office alongside Angelo was something he did not relish. Even less so when he walked in, and saw something that rocked him to his very godsdamned core.

The duke was not at his desk. Rather, he called to them from the adjoining bedchamber where he slept when casework kept him at headquarters overnight. And he looked...

Gods.

The Duke wasn't a young man, and he had been in more battles than Scar could count, so expecting him to look the part of the great warrior he had been in his mercenary days was not realistic. But he had always looked as fit as a man of his age could be, and more he had always been a _presence._ As if there was too much mind and spirit for his body to hold, and it coated the room like the feeling in the air before lightning strike. He always exuded the quiet confidence of a man who had crossed swords with a hundred enemies and never found one better than himself.

Until now.

The Duke had been tied up in meetings for weeks now, dealing with his peers on the Council and with increasingly annoyed Amnish ambassadors, so Scar had not seen him in some days. If he had not been wearing his badge of office, Scar would not have recognized him. His skin was a shade too gray to be healthy, and seemed to hang loosely from him; and from the empty look in his eyes, Scar was not sure if this was because he had lost weight, or if he just didn't have the energy to hold his own body together.

Scar had seen that look before, in field hospitals. You saw it in the eyes of the men who wouldn't live long enough for the clerics to reach them.

"Sir..." He began, before being cut off by a weary hand.

"No need to say it. I look like the Hells spat me out," Eltan said, his voice too raspy by half. "Started last week. Some ailment of the lungs, and a bad one. My healer says I have even odds to outlast it, but from how I feel, I fear he's being an optimist."

"Gods, sir, that's a bit too much to be dropping on me in one breath," Scar snapped. "And shouldn't you be resting if its that bad?!"

Eltan chuckled, before coughing violently for several painful seconds. "Calm. I've lived too long anyway, Scar."

"Respectfully, sir, I don't quite agree with you on that one!"

"Which is why I feel safe telling you this. The Fist need a leader who can stay on his feet for more than an hour, so. You officially have my job until I can take it back, and forever if I can't. I hereby promote you to Captain-Commander."

"I...see."

"Congratulations are in order, I see," drawled a voice from beside him, and Scar had to fight the urge to jump out of his skin; the shock of the Duke's condition had made him forget his unwelcome companion altogether.

_Now if only forgetting him made him actually be gone._

Angelo smiled, stepping into the room around Scar and strolling up to Eltan's desk with annoying grace. He was only a half-elf, but he could certainly be obnoxious like a full one. It was the smirk, Scar knew. Nobody could smirk like a damn elf, that expression that just _screamed_ out, "I see you as vermin, but I am too elegant to just say it." Angelo had that look down to a science, to the point Scar couldn't recall ever seeing another expression on his face.

"For both of you, unfortunately," Eltan said. "Dosan. Direct request from the other Dukes. You are taking over the hunt for the fugitives on the Anchev case."

" _What_?!" Scar snapped.

"I'm an old friend of the family," Angelo said, the very picture of innocence. "Why, before I joined this fine soldiering company, I even served the household as master of the guard. So of course, when the young lord requested me personally to handle his quest for justice, it only made sense."

"The city is always willing to support a grieving son in seeking justice," Eltan said dryly, the rasp in his voice only adding to it. "Particularly when he just inherited the third largest fortune in the region."

... _Ah. Ah-ha. So that's how it is, then. Sarevok Anchev... Rieltar's straightforward son is more twisty in the head than we thought, I see._

"Sir, with due respect the Iron Throne investigations were in my purview..." Scar began.

"... Until witnesses confirmed sighting you in the company of the alleged murderer," Eltan finished for him. "I know you did nothing wrong, old friend. And I know the Throne isn't a blameless organization."

"Slander, sir duke," Angelo said mildly.

"In my office, it isn't slander if I don't say it is," Eltan hissed. "The Throne is a cutthroat group that just barely stays within the law. But they are also the city's only source of iron ore that is even slightly reliable, and that gives them clout. Young lord Anchev just became an orphan, which gives him sympathy. And combined these give them the right to have their way this time. Now both of you, out. I need to lay down."

Scar, mind ablaze with possibilities, left the office just as Eltan's personal healer strode in, carrying a tray of tonics.

Had Angelo not been behind him, he might have seen the almost imperceptible smile the half-elf gave one of the darker vials among these medicines.

* * *

 

"I have concerns," Shar-teel said, and that was a sign from the gods that Acherai truly had fallen as far as he could.

"Oh good. Your problems are _always_ reasonable," he said with a sigh. "Tell me, did you see one of those nasty, nasty men and feel the need to stab him because he looked at you wrong?"

"Yes. _That_ one," she said flatly, pointing at their guide. Kagain had, after getting over being woken up early (it had taken until the next day, extra meals, and promise of a bonus the next big payday they had), delivered on Acherai's request. The group currently waited next to the moat surrounding the city, an artificial river that channeled the Sea of Swords into a natural barrier around the port town. The man had been useful so far, at least, connecting them a minor smuggler who could ship them past the city moat and guards without raising a scene. He was not high-ranked in any underworld organization, or he wouldn't have been there in person, but he clearly had enough contacts to at least manage a few basic services, and his prices were… well, ridiculous even by petty criminal standards. But that was part of the plan too, in a way.

Try telling Shar-teel to be pragmatic, though. In one ear and out the other with that madwoman.

Acherai sighed. "He's fine. Eldoth, tell her you're fine."

"I'm _quite_ fine," Eldoth Kron said smoothly. "And I'd appreciate it if certain 'fair' ladies stopped casting aspersions on my character and started focusing on making us dinner while we await the, erm, unofficial ferry. Just a suggestion."

"Sweet Sehanine, and people call me slimy," Coran murmured.

"I confess Mr. Kron has some personality defects," Acherai said calmly. "But our job got much harder when dear Sephiria turned the city into a war zone. We need funding and allies if we are to succeed, and Eldoth here can get us both, as he was kind enough to outline."

"Friends in the Thieves' Guild go a long way," Eldoth said cheerfully. "And of course, we have already discussed where the funding will be coming from. Entar Silvershield, Duke of the Gate and, I cannot stress enough, wealthiest man in it. And his daughter loves me! The ransom notes practically write themselves. I know that a thousand gold for a ferry might seem expensive, my friends, but you'll appreciate that we kept a low profile when you're helping me make us back that investment ten times over."

"There, you see? Eldoth will serve his purpose handily," Acherai said. "And he won't betray us, because he knows what will happen if he does. Viconia, what will happen?"

She pushed her hood back a bit to emphasize her black skin's visibility and purred, in far too seductive a tone for the words, "I will magically create a swarm of flesh-eating spiders inside his eyes. My mother used to love that one. I'm not as good as she was, though. She could keep a male alive for _days_ while the little dears ate, but I find I can barely manage a scant few hours."

Eldoth coughed. "Yes. We...covered this, yes. Very spirited ladies you have around, friend. May want to work on that."

"Work on it? I _encourage_ it. I do love a woman with enthusiasm and creativity. She does _fantastic_ work, as you'll see if you get on her bad side." He paused. "Well, you won't _see_ it."

"On account of the spiders in yer eyes," Kagain said.

"Yes, Kagain, that is what I was getting at."

"Just helpin' out, elf."

"And you did it with style. But of course, none of it will be necessary, because Eldoth would never betray us," Acherai said. "The plan _is_ sound. Kagain has done work for the Silvershields before, so he can get us in. The lovely daughter of the family knows our new friend well. Money and connections, my friends, money and connections. We will have both very soon, and I am sure not even a single person need have spiders eating their eyes."

"Not even one?" Viconia pouted.

Acherai grinned and brushed her hair back behind her ear. "Well, maybe just one. You know how I love getting you a gift."

"Mmmm, you spoil me."

"Always," he murmured, leaning in to nip her ear gently, and whisper, "You play a flirtatious maniac better than expected, my dear."

She smirked wickedly, lightly traced her tongue along his neck, and whispered back, "I'm reminded of home. Tormenting insolent males and plotting treachery is drow foreplay."

He shivered as her touch drew lines of electricity down his neck. "I like the sound of that."

"You should," she said, shifting his head to pull their lips together, stopping just shy of actually kissing him, and instead just letting her breath brush his face. " _Maybe_."

"Oh, you're a devil," he whispered, running his hand down her spine and enjoying the shudder it provoked. He still had to consider, of course, that this interest on her part was falsified to manipulate him. But, well, there were worse ways to have someone try to get in his good graces.

Eldoth coughed again. "Do they even… remember we're here?"

"Wench has been all touchy since the elf started eating souls or whatever he does now. Darkskins love magic, especially the really evil stuff," Kagain said without obvious concern.

"Trust me, if this was common I'd be throwing up more. Though you wouldn't be alive to notice, since I'd be in too foul a mood to tolerate you," Shar-teel grumbled.

"You picked the _wrong_ group to join, sir Kron," Coran said cheerfully.

"As I tell myself every waking minute," Edwin muttered. He still technically was not allowed to talk.

* * *

 

Scar stomped down the street, as full of fury as he had ever been and not certain at all what to do about it.

Kicked upstairs, after all these years. Handed an empty promotion that put him behind a desk, just as he was also forced to keep his hands out of the only case he actually _needed_ to look into! He missed being a mercenary, on days like this. So much damn simpler than being a watchman; just walk onto the battlefield and put the pointy end of the sword into the bastard wearing the other side's colors. Not good for the soul, maybe, but easy once you got the hang of it…

"Alms for the poor, sir?" a raspy voice asked from his right, and Scar cursed himself even as he jumped in shock. Being lost in thought was no reason to lower his guard, dammit all.

He sighed, tossing a few coppers into the man's cup. Old Grem was, as far as beggars went, not the worst. Probably wouldn't bash your head in and steal your purse if he found you drunk in an alley, anyway, and always called Scar 'sir.' Better than Angelo, anyway. "Sorry, Grem. A poor day all around, since the Iron Throne business. The Fist hasn't gone off high alert in a tenday."

"Seen the posters. Lost yer killers, sir?" Grem asked with a throaty chuckle.

"They tend to run, old man. We'll find 'em in the end." _Or at least a filthy pack of bounty hunters masquerading as watchmen will, at least._

"Well, you been a fair man ta me. I know begging 'round the Fist hall ain't looked kindly on, but ya never dragged me to a cell and yer boys give coppers regular, even a silver every so often. So's I may have seen somethin' what would help ya out."

Scar narrowed his eyes. "And you didn't tell an officer this before now? Waiting until I get off-shift isn't the urgency a murder deserves, old man."

"Most officers ain't the sorts to listen to a beggar," the old man said defensively. "But yer a good sort. Never beat down a man fer askin' for a bit of coin. Officers on your watch leave me alone. So's I trust you."

He sighed. "Fair point. Talk, old man. I'll listen, and if you make sense there's even more coins in it for you."

The old man grinned, showing off far too few teeth. "Silver?"

"Gold. The bounty's a strong one. Might not even be homeless in a few tendays, if you actually help to catch these folks."

"HA! Wouldn't that be a laugh," he chuckled. "Come on, then. Not somethin' to talk about in the street, y'know? Don't want anyone hearin' it and poaching my bounty!"

"Oh, so you're a bounty hunter now?"

"Only since ye told me I was," the old beggar said with something between a chuckle and a cough. "Come, come! Don't wanna talk in the open. Alleys, alleys. Always safe in the alleys."

Scar rolled his eyes, putting one hand to his sword. "You're a good sort, Grem, so I let you walk about. If you lead me to some young toughs with sharp knives now, I _will_ run you through."

"Some faith, sir. Nobody here seeks your purse, guardsman," Grem said, chuckling again as Scar followed him around a sharp turn and deeper into an alleyway. The beggar moved aside some detritus left behind the warehouses it bordered, trash that smelled entirely too much like rotten fish for something that wasn't actually in the docks district. "Come, come. I found something you _must_ see."

Scar sighed, looking over the beggar's shoulder while making damn sure to keep his hand _firmly_ on his blade… and felt his jaw go slack, along with the grip on the blade. A corpse stared up at him; twisted, broken, and half-eaten from the looks of it. Which was nothing he hadn't seen before, and so he normally would not have bothered to be concerned beyond the smell.

Except the corpse was Grem.

The old man spun on him, already inside his guard and moving like a striking snake, his filthy fingers extending into slick grey claws and lashing out for Scar's eyes. The guardsman was a veteran of too many wars to keep track of, and that was very much the only thing that kept him alive; rather than try to block or counterattack, either of which would have taken seconds he didn't have, he simply fell backward. Claws that should have buried themselves to the knuckle in his eye sockets struck his forehead at an angle and skittered off bone, a white-hot lance of pain and blood in his eyes being a fair trade for survival. He rolled backward on impact with the ground, showing more agility than most would credit to a middle-aged guardsman, and by the time he came to his feet his sword was out and ready.

The doppleganger, for that's what it had to be, chuckled at him in Grem's voice. "Fast old meat. Tougher than expected, but that's okay. Crack the hard outer shell to get to the warm parts inside."

"Old wolves aren't meat, face-stealer. We're always better at killing than whatever young pup thinks he can step up, and you can tell your master that," Scar said grimly, a cold smile on his face. "Or you could, if I was going to leave you a head to speak with."

"Wolves are not men. They have the sense to hunt in packs," the doppleganger purred, his eyes going quicksilver and empty. "Like us."

Scar's eyes widened, despite the sting of blood in them, and glanced over his shoulder at a sound behind him. Two figures, outlined against the dim lighting flowing into the alley from the streets.

 _Outflanked. Not much room to maneuver to the sides, have to be careful the sword doesn't catch on a wall. They have claws, nothing to worry about there,_ he thought, a smile on his lips that carried no joy at all, stopping at somewhere between grim and sad. _Well. Always knew we wouldn't live forever, right?_

He lowered his stance, ready to spin at either side and try his level best to cut down as many of them as he could before they brought him down.

And then one of the two new arrivals raised a bow and shot 'Grem' full in the chest.

The doppleganger let out a sound halfway between a scream of pain and the hissing of a snake, its hand involuntarily clamping down on the arrow as the shock of agony sent it to its knees. With a motion so smooth that Scar would have promoted the soldier who showed it on the spot, the second new arrival dashed past the shocked guardsman, a heavy metal staff swinging up from the ground to impact the underside of the thing's jaw. The sound of bone snapping rang out through the alley, the doppleganger's head snapping back with enough force to break its neck. The creature flew backward into the alley wall, and did not stir.

The staff-wielding figure turned to face him, and Scar had to admit Jaheira's wanted poster captured her look of perpetual annoyance fairly well. That artist deserved a raise.

"Apologies for the timing. We've been trying to find a moment to talk to you, but it has been difficult. For the most part we have been forced to live in the sewers," she said, disgust rolling off her with each word.

"It smells!" the second figure agreed.

"Stop helping, Imoen."

"Sorry."

Scar blinked in confusion and not a little rage, looking from the dead doppleganger to the adventurers who had basically ruined his life, and spent a few seconds just opening his mouth and not saying anything.

"You seem distressed," Imoen offered.

" _What the Hells did you idiots do?!"_ he screamed, finally.

"You see, this is why I tell her not to help," Jaheira sighed. "Trust me, this situation is not centered on us at all. Sarevok is cleverer than I would have cared to admit."

" _Explain."_

"Once we get somewhere safe, I-"

" _NOW."_

Jaheira sighed again. "Fine. The short version."

**_Three Days Earlier, Iron Throne Tower…_ **

The waves of fire ripped down the staircase and across the grand hall of the Throne tower. The target was Sephiria, that much was clear, but most of the hall was at least scorched; Sarevok laughed, the sound tinged with pain that he was clearly enjoying, even as his father let out a pained scream and fell back behind a vase, batting madly at his burning robes.

The girl went down, hard. And she didn't move. Jaheira was stopped from running to her side, healing spell already in her mind, only by a very disheartening sight approaching them from the upper floors.

Six descended the stairs, already in formation for a battle; two warriors in plate armor, one bearing a halberd the gleamed with cold blue light and the other carrying longsword and a bow strapped across his back. A man in leather and an elf in plain clothes behind them spreading to flank with small, swift blades, the latter also bearing a wand that still glowed with the flames it had cast out. And in the rear, a man and a gnome clutching holy symbols at their throats, both murmuring prayers beneath their breaths.

Oh, and all six had their faces and hands painted with fresh blood.

Sephiria was unconscious, and that bear of a man had broken Khalid's arm. That left the group one-and-a-half members down, at the least, and they were facing six fresh enemies. Plus that… _thing_ , still standing and smiling with an arrow in his eye, like the pain only made him want to battle more.

Jaheira had been an adventurer for a long time. She knew a rout when she saw it.

" _Minsc, grab the girl!_ " she snapped, ordering forward their best remaining melee option even as she backpedaled, a hasty prayer murmured under her breath. From the marble floors, tangling vines began to sprout, erupting from the bare stone as easily as if it were damp soil. It snared the charging enemies, hampering their steps. The elf with the wand was even snared totally, tripping forward and falling to be tangled totally. Minsc, who _could_ follow a simple order, even took the time to charge past the rest of the group like an unstoppable bull to save their wounded ally.

At least until the unstoppable bull was stopped.

The leader, the man with the gleaming halberd, laughed derisively at the vines tangling his legs and hacked them off with a single smooth motion. With grace that would have been hard for a man in armor _half_ the weight of what he was wearing, he leaped the rest of the way down the steps to slam his blade down between Minsc and Sephiria, a mad gleam in his eyes. "The lord denies you, and we are his holy blades. Die now."

 _Magic. One of the clerics,_ Jaheira thought. _They were casting as they descended. Prayers to empower their allies. Annoying._ She cast her mind into Silvanus, calling up a prayer to end magics…

And an arrow slammed into her side, the second warrior having abandoned his sword to draw the bow on his back.

Being shot was not quite so simple as the childish often assumed. Far too many were the stories of great heroes who kept battling with an arrow embedded in them, as though it were a meager inconvenience. Being shot with an arrow was not entirely unlike being punched by a giant, a shock that rolled over one's entire body and made thought impossible as the impact and the sudden, shocking pain overrode all other perception. Her spell was lost, her legs giving out under her, and she struggled to draw breath enough to keep conscious.

And as if to mock her perceptions, the giant man smiled at her, an arrow _still in his skull_ like some kind of grim ornament, and said, "Weak."

_Gods damn it all._

"We need to retreat," she hissed to her husband as he pulled her to rest on his good shoulder, his sword held between them and the enemy as the closest he had to a shield.

"T-that may be problematic," he snapped back as her vines began to fade. One of the two men she'd identified as a rogue murmured a few syllables and vanished from view. The other moved forward from pillar to pillar, a short blade gleaming with magic, to try to loop around between them and the door.

" _Mage!_ _Do something useful!_ " she snarled at Xan. She knew he would know which mage she was talking to because she didn't give him the dignity of using his name. It fit his view of the world.

"Everything I do is useful," he muttered, pulling a wand and a small potion out of his pouch. "Dynaheir, do you have your large friend?"

Already mid-way through a spell, her eyes locked on the man trading hammer-blows with her giant of a companion and not coming out the worst for it, Dynaheir still took the time to shoot him a scowl.

"Yes, then!" he said, leveling the wand and activating it by an act of will. The rogue rushing the group tumbled out from behind a cracked pillar, poised to take Jaheira and Khalid in a rush that would run them both through in a single motion…

And he stopped mid-lunge as the Wand of Paralysis took effect, halting him so suddenly and firmly that he couldn't even fall over, despite literally being frozen mid-step with one leg off the floor. Pleased with the success of this (because it might well have failed, gotten his erstwhile leader killed, and then Imoen would _never_ stop whining), he drew back his arm and threw the potion to Khalid with all his might; a Potion of Speed that would let him get his wife to safety faster than the enemy could pursue.

It made it about halfway. Fortunately, Imoen had started running as soon as she'd seen him draw back his arm and caught in mid-air, taking the time to shout, " _You're awful_!" even as she dove into a forward tumble that sent the archer's next arrow sailing harmlessly over her head.

Xan would have taken the time to counter this, but that was also about the time that Dynaheir finished her spell. And it was hard to hear _anything_ over the thunder being set off by a lightning strike right next to you.

Xan winced. A Lightning Bolt indoors was, logically speaking, a terrible idea. The electricity did not stop with the target, leaping about randomly to strike anything that might channel it. But frankly, he could also accept that risks were about what they needed right now. The bolt struck the man engaging Minsc full in the chest, arcs of lightning leaping from him to strike his partner with the bow, and even produced a scream of pain from thin air as the invisible mage/thief had his position violently confirmed.

Xan opened his mouth to add another spell to the chaos, hopefully one that would finally _kill_ one of these insufferable nuisances, and that was when they finally hit absolute rock-bottom: as he opened his mouth, no sound came out.

He had just enough time to realize that one of the clerics had been busy before the _other_ one finished his own casting, a magical sigil appearing on the marble floor between him and Dynaheir.

One which promptly exploded…

**_Baldur's Gate sewer system, the present…_ **

"I know what happened next," Scar said with an annoyed sigh. "The big barbarian scooped up the two mages and ran through the streets screaming and nearly killed a few much smaller people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Crowds had come in to see the fuss, and crowds become mobs when people start to get hurt. The chaos was absurd, and by the time the Fist were even on the scene you were lost in the madness."

"In his defense," Jaheira said, as the three progressed through the sewer tunnels, "We'd likely not have survived if Sarevok and his acolytes had pursued. The riot was disastrous, but kept their victory from being total."

"Instead, all we lost was Seffie," Imoen said bitterly. "Oh, and our ability to walk anywhere aboveground instead of living in a sewer."

"The girl is alive," Scar said. "That's something. And I know who sent that beast to kill me. All that remains now is to drag him into the light of day and prove his connections. Follow me to headquarters, and I will settle this and your innocence in one fell swoop." He paused. "You _are_ innocent, I hope?"

"Of the death of Rieltar? I know he was alive when we fled," Jaheira snapped. "And the accused could not have lifted her own arms, much slain a man with a greatsword."

"And if you accuse her of anything like that ever again, I'll hurt you," Imoen said, very softly.

"Just wanted to hear it myself," Scar said, stepping toward the ladder out of the sewers.

He pushed up a manhole cover, coming up less than a minute's walk from headquarters and a soon-to-be dead half-elf traitor… and found three crossbows leveled at his face before he even stepped out of the damn pit.

"Harold 'Scar' Loggerson. Thank you for returning so quickly, and for proving me right when I told my men to watch _all_ approaches to the compound," Angelo drawled. "Now then, what is the official response to this situation? Ah yes: you stand accused of the murder of Grand Duke Eltan. Surrender yourself into my custody, or face death."

* * *

 

"Well, I must admit, my friend, you are as good as your word. In the city, and not a guard to be seen," Acherai said, smiling at the Silvershield estate. "You know, not so long ago, I would have robbed this place. Now I am about to walk in as an honored guest. Times do change, hm?"

Eldoth clapped him on the back. "Well, not too much. You're still going to rob it, just with more style than a sneak thief. A hostage who never tries to escape, _that_ is a prize to be won."

"Oh, I agree. It's like a gold farm, really. A fair lady on your arm, and her father will pay you for her safety? Really, its as though he's paying you to have sex and lounge around fine inns all day. I admire it, I really do," Acherai agreed. "It's just so...small time, though. I have bigger aspirations these days."

Eldoth tensed visibly. "What do you mean by this? Skie Silvershield is _the_ prize of the city. The Duke will pay thousands to keep her safe. Tens of thousands!"

"Valuable, indeed. But the favor of such a powerful man will provide certain avenues far more valuable than just coin, friend. We are not going to rob Entar Silvershield, we are going to become his new best friends!" Acherai said cheerfully. "Shar-teel, if he moves, kill him."

"Finally, something I can enjoy," she said, pressing the tip of her sword against the man's spleen.

"Thank you kindly, my dear," Acherai said. "Kagain? I trust you can work out what to do?"

The dwarf chuckled, shaking his head in bemusement, as he reached into his pack and withdrew a gold brooch bearing the Silvershield family crest. "Forgot all about this thing, I did. Good on you fer thinking to bring it along 'stead of selling it for a few pints."

"Wh-what is..." Eldoth began, stopping when the sword at his back dug in.

"No, no, darling. I am always happy to indulge the curious," Acherai chided. "See, I met Kagain, oh, ages ago when I helped him investigate a caravan his mercenary company was guarding. It was something of a disaster; the caravan was destroyed and all passengers and guards killed, so poor Kagain was forced to abandon his business. Since, you see, one of those passengers was Eddard Silvershield, the Duke's oldest son."

Acherai smiled, taking the brooch from Kagain and idly twirling it between his fingers as he looked Eldoth in the eyes and enjoyed watching the man pale. "I knew returning it would win me some influence. But not nearly so much as I'll get from catching the killer and exposing a plot against the household. Now tell me, can you guess your role in this plan?"


	18. Chapter Seventeen

Sephiria sighed deeply, concentrated, and pressed a hand against the worst of her wounds. A wave of cooling energy ran down it, and she nearly _hissed_ in relief, the bliss of pain vanishing almost more than she could bear.

Not ideal.

She did not want to use these powers. She didn't exactly fear them anymore, not since meeting Sarevok, but she didn't fully trust them. But the fact of the matter was, if she stayed here, all her friends were going to die. Sarevok would hunt them down with brutal efficiency, limitless resources, and an unrelenting hatred she barely understood. She needed to escape, and she needed to be healthy to do that.

_Because for whatever reason, however it may have happened, he is like me. But he's been broken by it._

**_He is strong. He has accepted the gift. You will fall to him unless you do the same._ **

_Oh, do shut up,_ she thought, flexing her arm experimentally, pulling to the end of the chain that held her to her cot. Limited range of motion, but no pain. _You made a mistake. You shouldn't have let me see him. See how burned he was on the inside, see what it_ did _to him._

 _I know my heart. I know who I am. And you can call me your monster all you like, but I am_ nothing _like him._

This power, whatever it was, was not from any goodly source. It could change who you were… but who you were could change it right back. She had never, not once, found any use to it other than healing. Caring. A force trying to tempt her into blood and carnage giving her the power to heal wounds was already something odd, but she had thought it might be some kind of trick. A trap to lure her into drawing on an energy that would eventually turn against her. But Sarevok had shown her something.

That whatever their shared power was, it had not made her a manipulator like Acherai, or a brutal killer like Sarevok. It wanted to, something inside her _craved_ such darkness, but she had fought it back, and in doing so had changed it. Warped it. A power meant for death had become a thing of healing.

So she would not ignore her powers. She would not fight this thing inside of her. She would just always, _always,_ use it to help. To heal. To give strength to the innocent and stand fast against the guilty. She was a paladin, a redeemer, and she would redeem the darkness inside her to become a tool of the light. For Torm the True, for Helm the Vigilant, for Tyr the Just, she would stand strong against all evils within or without, and any darkness inside her would be nothing more than the shadow cast by the light she would wield to this purpose.

Something in the back of her mind screamed in frustration, and she smiled. Coated in wounds, wearing nothing but bloody bandages, unarmed and chained to a bed, and she felt, somehow, better than she had in weeks. She owed Sarevok a debt for putting things into perspective, she supposed.

She'd repay him for that by seeing him face the courts for his crimes, of course. But still, it was something.

"Now," she murmured. "Let us see what we can do about these chains." She wasn't entirely sure, but she had her suspicions. With a silent prayer to Torm and a gentle exhale, she touched the power inside her, willing it to come forth. Healing it brought, but more than that, she needed to be _better_ than what she was. Stronger, the strong right arm of Justice that all paladins were meant to be.

Because that was what a paladin really was. It wasn't about oaths she might never be able to take, it wasn't about what was in her blood or what tried to change her heart against her will. It was about what she did, what she felt, and what cause she served. To protect the innocent, to guard the just, to be strong enough, to stand against all evil.

She pulled, the muscles in her arms tightening against her skin like steel cords, powerful enough to drive a blade through an inch of plate steel. But not enough. _Torm, please, there are people I need to save. Imoen, Jaheira, all those Sarevok seeks to destroy…_

_And even, if I can, the tainted souls of those who call me sister._

Something inside her snapped, screamed, and recoiled in agony from that thought, that final connection. Sarevok had made it clear, and she had suspected even before, but accepting it in her mind was a step she had unconsciously refused for some time. Bonds of blood were the thing that had awoken her power for the first time. The need to sever those bonds were what drove Sarevok, and if she wanted to oppose him, she needed a different path.

Those bonds of blood would become bonds of family. She didn't know how, she didn't understand any of it, but she had brothers. And while they had to face the consequences of their crimes of the flesh, she _would_ find some way to save their souls. Free them of the curse that consumed them.

Power, cool and gentle as it was _strong_ , roared through her body, and the chains holding her right arm snapped. She smiled and began to pull them free, unlooping the bindings from the wood cot and standing up for the first time since she'd woken up in this pit.

_All right. Now I just need to open this cell, find a weapon, and get outside without being killed. I can manage that. Probably. Maybe._

_Let's just hope that Imoen hasn't managed to walk into a disaster just yet, hm?_

* * *

 

"Well, this is a disaster," Imoen said.

"The lady isn't wrong," Angelo said, his tone far too cheerful for the situation. "But what else could you call the murder of a Grand Duke? By his own lieutenant, no less. Sad, but I imagine that's why you could pull it off. He loved you like a son, he did, and you used it against him. What. A. Monster."

"You _bastard_ ," Scar hissed. "I knew you were crooked. I knew that. But I never thought you were bad enough to pull something like this until today. I'll personally see you rot in every Hell there ever was for this, traitor."

"Um, Scar, maybe don't antagonize him," Imoen muttered, looking around them to see all the many, many crossbowmen. "He has a _lot_ of those bows. Aimed at us."

"I don't care. I'll die if I have to as long as I take this piece of _trash_ with me," Scar said, a low growl under his words and his hand not relaxing its grip on his sword in the slightest, but at least he didn't charge. Yet.

"The only reason you're still alive at all, 'Commander,' is that Grand Duke Sarevok wants as many warm bodies on the gallows as he can get when he puts Sephiria of Candlekeep on trial," Angelo said lazily, leaning against the doorjamb with an insolent smirk on his face. "You can live out the next week or so to join her, or die here. I truly don't care."

Jaheira narrowed her eyes. "Your master is no duke, worm."

"Not yet, but he has a princely gift for the city that assures him the nomination now that a, ahem, space is open," Angelo said. "Now, since you haven't surrendered yet, and you _are_ wanted murderers, I think you're going to have to die now. Men, you may fire when…"

He stopped, his back straightening oddly. "Men," he said quickly. "Do _not_ fire."

Imoen had to fight to hold in a squeal of glee as the reason why became apparent.

"That seems wise," Sephiria muttered from behind him, on the other side of the doorway he had been standing in front of. She seemed shaky on her feet and one of her eyes was blackened, but she was _there._ Mostly naked for some reason, but still there, which was all Imoen needed.

The fact she had used the half-open door to slip the point of a stolen sword right against Angelo's spine was a good sign too.

"How the Hells did you get out of your cell?" he snapped.

Sephiria coughed lightly.

**_Five minutes earlier…_ **

"Heya," the gnome said, sauntering up to her cell. "Heard the noise, figured I should meet the neighbors. You in here for murder too?"

"I… yes, though I am innocent," she said with a blink. "How are you not in a cell, sir?"

"Oh, I can open all the doors. They aren't as secure as they think. I actually have a tunnel to get outside, too," he said with a shrug. "You know. Magic. Name's Neb, by the by."

"Ah…ha. I am Sephiria. If I could trouble you to open my cell, please? I have infused myself with some sort of magic, and I believe I might be able to pull it free of the hinges, but that would be even more noise, so…"

Neb shrugged, tapped the lock in three places, and inserted his finger into it, twisting slightly. The door popped open.

"… Ah. Well, thank you, sir. I am escaping, so I would suggest you come with me. These people will likely execute you, even though I am sure you are falsely accused as I was," she said with a thankful nod.

"Hm? Oh, no, I'm guilty," he said cheerfully. "Killed some street urchins. Their parents didn't want 'em, see, so I take care of them in my own way. More like adoption than murder, I'd say. They're better off, really. Their souls sing for me every night."

"You… you are a serial killer of… children," she said.

"Aye. Hey, how about a game?" Neb said with a bright grin. "If you can guess how many, I'll let you use my tunnel to get out of here! I'm not planning to leave yet, but it's open in case I need to get home to the kids in a hurry. They'd be lonely without me."

Sephiria blinked.

**_The Present…_ **

"So I beat him to death with my bare hands," she finished, "and found his cell. The tunnel was hidden by an illusion, but it faded when he died."

"Oh, for the love of all that's _holy,_ people. If I get out of this alive, I'm taking a finger from everyone on guard duty," Angelo snarled. "There's neglectful, and then there's just _incompetent._ "

"Now then. I don't want to kill anyone if I can avoid it, particularly since I do not wish to make that distressing murderer happy in whatever Hell he burns in now," Sephiria said. "So you, commander, are coming with me. As are my friends. And if any one of your men attacks us on our path…"

"Ka-stab!" Imoen declared.

"Yes… yes, Immy, I was… implying that," Sephiria said with a sigh.

"And I _helped_ , like always! I'll even help ya find some pants later, because we're that close."

"… I apologize for her," Sephiria said, clamping a hand down on Angelo's shoulder to direct him, even as she also dug her blade a little deeper into his back, enough to draw a drop of blood. "She has always had an overabundance of personality."

"Cold, Seffie. Cold."

* * *

 

Acherai sat across from Duke Entar Silvershield and sipped from a goblet of deep red wine, smiling warmly. "So, how did your meeting go."

"I owe you a debt on two fronts, it seems," the man said with a pained sigh, running his hands through his graying hair in obvious exasperation. "Besides finally lending some closure to the case of my son's…loss… I confirmed your other story quickly enough. The guards searched Skie's room and found a dozen letters from that rogue, all honeyed words about how he would deliver her from me to a life of 'freedom and adventure.' Talk of marriage and life on the road as a traveling performer!"

"A simple way to gain a valuable hostage, if you're the sort of villain who would consider such a thing," the elf said smoothly. "Particularly after he took the time to ensure she was your sole heir."

Silvershield laughed bitterly. "Would you like to know the worst part? She met him in person _once,_ reading poetry at a fair outside the city. One roll in the hay with a peasant performer _,_ and she was ready to abandon her family! For the murderer of her own brother! Honestly, I knew my girl was somewhat sheltered, but until today I had never considered she might also be an _idiot._ "

Acherai's smile widened. "I'm glad I was able to help, milord. I know you must be quite tired from your stressful day, of course, but I was hoping to breach another matter, now that you know my intelligence is trustworthy. Something quite dark is going on in this city, involving some quite powerful people, and I believe that you can help me uproot the problem, so to speak."

"I'm too furious to sleep, truly, even after slitting the fiend's throat myself," Silvershield said. "You may as well talk."

Acherai's jaw dropped.

"Oh come now, lad. You knew what I was going to do to an assassin who took aim at my family."

Acherai blinked. "Well, yes, but I didn't think you'd just _say_ it. Plausible deniability and all that. Are you quite sure you're a politician? Because I've met thief guildmasters who'd look askance at being so open about such things."

"HA! Good, good, I like a little open honesty. Don't see it much, running a city," Silvershield said, refilling his own wine goblet. "I am the wealthiest person in this city, young man. I did not become so by being pleasant to those who attack me. And I also did not become so by failing to spot a fellow pragmatist. You have made an ally of me this night, and I can be a _very_ generous ally. I trust you're not fool enough to turn me instead to a well-funded enemy."

"HA! Oh, I _like_ you. No, milord, no, you are not wrong at all," Acherai said. "Rather, a man after my own heart."

Silvershield raised his goblet to his lips and took a sip. "Good. You'll be paid, very well, for delivering Mr. Kron to me as you did. And as you've proven a trustworthy contractor on one matter of great import, I see no issue with keeping you on retainer for another. Finding my family beset by kidnappers and assassins has left me paranoid enough to believe you know what you're talking about when you speak of conspiracies, so this is as good a time as any for you to share."

Acherai let his smile widen further. "So tell me, milord, how much notice have you paid to the business ventures of the Iron Throne?"

"Enough. They've cornered me out of the market in metals and metal goods of late, which is aggravating, but that was one of my smaller operations so the loss hasn't been severe. I made it up by opening a route for Moonshae wines to..."

"So you never picked up that the iron crisis was their doing, then. Good to know," Acherai said, trying to disguise in his tone that he really didn't care about the man's trade routes.

"… A dark accusation. Young Sarevok is the most popular man in the city these days. He reacted to his father's death by ensuring the Fist was fully equipped to find the murderers, _pro bono._ Then slashing prices on all iron and steel weaponry and armor to help 'private citizens secure their homes,' in a time when his company's arms are some of the only ones reliably worth buying. Making any charge stick on him will require incontrovertible evidence."

"And yet you don't sound surprised, or even doubtful."

"Because it's too easy to believe. A merchant group making a sudden, absurd profit through dirty dealings is nothing special. Stockpiling grain because you've gotten advance notice of a locust swarm, selling weapons to both sides of a civil war. I wouldn't think twice about that. But Sarevok is in a perfect position to make that sudden profit, and he's giving it away instead. Spinning tales of Amn murdering his father. Why would Amnish assassins target a merchant lord? It would have no purpose beyond provoking a war they've shown no signs of wanting, and wouldn't even be the best way to do _that!_ But the people believe it, of course, because the Iron Crisis has ruined their lives, and they want to blame someone."

Acherai took a deep breath, because this was the tipping point. He had pieced together the majority of the plot in his mind, but Sarevok _was_ where it all fell apart, at least if you approached it logically. "Well. I know that Rieltar was the primary instigator of the iron crisis. His goal was to create a massive shortage and then step in to alleviate it, selling stockpiles of ore and goods at exorbitant prices. He had a hidden mine in the Cloakwood, I'll be happy to sell you the location for your own use if you like. You stand to make a fortune from it."

"Sensible, and appreciated. We'll negotiate a price for a map later. At the moment, however, Rieltar is dead, and if he was truly behind the Crisis it actually does make sense someone would contract the Shadow Thieves to collect his head. Sarevok does not seem to be pursuing his plan, instead building political support for himself and enflaming the public against Amn. So it would seem your conspiracy is collapsed already."

And here's where things became speculation. Dammit, hopefully correct speculation, please. "Because Sarevok is not interested in the original plan, and most likely killed his father himself. The war _is_ what he wants. Everything else is a stepping stone to that."

Entar raised an eyebrow. "For what reason?"

"I can't be sure of that. But I know that the accused murderer, Sephiria of 'Amn,' is a native of Candlekeep, and Sarevok placed an illegal bounty on her head some months ago. Far from her being a hired assassin, _he_ has been trying to kill _her._ I don't know why, but it's very important to him. And as you've seen, he cares nothing for obvious wealth. He wants that girl dead, and he wants to start a war. Those are his only two priorities."

Entar blinked. "For what… _possible_ reason?"

Acherai sighed. Because this was something he just _could not_ reasonably explain. He didn't know the full truth of it himself. "I cannot be sure, but the evidence supports it. Consider this: Rieltar's death at the hands of the 'Amnish' operatives. Not only do they not benefit from it, but what Shadow Thief would make an assassination through the front door, in broad daylight? Has anyone actually interrogated Sephiria other than the Flaming Fist, who recently, I am led to understand, experienced a shakeup in their command structure and are not communicating with outside organizations?"

"She was found, at the scene, her sword embedded in Rieltar's back," Entar countered.

"Which, yes, is not exactly a _glowing_ character recommendation. But we still have no witnesses to the actual murder other than Sarevok and several of his direct employees. Further, since taking over the Iron Throne, you said yourself he has not exactly been a model businessman. Rather, he seems to have devoted himself to tearing down his own organization and giving away his own inheritance. What sort of person engages in an elaborate plan to gain monumental wealth so they can _give it away?"_

"The sort to whom it is a stepping stone," Entar admitted. "He's trading his wealth, it seems, for popularity. I've paid to have people like me too, and when I did it I was seeking my dukedom. He may be making a similar push. Perhaps… painting Amn as the amoral aggressors, and he the only man who can protect the people from them. He wouldn't be the first to seek political power through fear."

Acherai blinked. "Oh. I confess I was thinking more along the lines of a magical ritual of some sort, but that actually makes quite some sense."

"HA! Ah, the young… do not bother playing at elven wisdom, lad, I _know_ you're younger than me. You leap to the dramatic when the mundane holds far more weight. Yes, yes, I can see this being the case. Rieltar sought wealth, but young Sarevok seeks power. He wants to _rule._ But why here? There is no place for him. Four seats for four Grand Dukes on the ruling council, and all are filled."

Acherai blinked again, less in befuddlement this time and more in thought, before a Very Bad Thing occurred to him. "Sir Silvershield. This strange shake-up in the Flaming Fist's command. What caused it?"

"Duke Eltan, alas, has fallen… suddenly… ill…" Entar said, slowly trailing off as the thought occurred to him. "Suddenly. Severely. Ill. It can happen, surely, but…"

"But it seems unlikely given the timing. We should get to him immediately and get him away from… everyone. Keep only people you trust absolutely near him," Acherai snapped.

"Agreed. Better paranoid and foolish than complacent and dead," the Duke said, standing and walking to a speaking tube set up in the corner of the office. "Galcian? Please prepare the coach, immediately. I'll need to travel to the Flaming Fist's compound in the merchant district, with all haste."

Silence.

"Galcian? I pay you twice what any other groom in the city makes because you do your job very well. Don't make me regret that," the Duke said flatly. "Dammit, is this thing…"

"Oh, dear," Acherai murmured. "Where does that connect? Who is hearing it?"

"The stablemaster's quarters. He has his own room, close to the rear entrance, so he can get to the stables and prepare the carriage quickly when needed. He should be there at this time of night; he knows to be within easy reach when I'm in a meeting."

"He's dead," Acherai said flatly. "Stay close to me, we need to get to the guest rooms."

"Wh-"

"What's better than being Duke?" Acherai asked. "Being the _only_ Duke. Duke Eltan's 'fallen ill,' and _you're_ about to be 'killed by Shadow Thieves.' We need to get to my group."

"My household guards are-"

"Infiltrated? Dead? We don't know anything other than the fact someone got into your manor. Do they have a map? Schedule for the security rounds? For all we know one of your guards opened the back door for them and pointed out exactly who to kill to make sure you wouldn't have easy access to a horse."

Entar scowled. "My guards know the policy. Bring to me evidence of a bribe, and I will double it. They have no reason to be disloyal."

Acherai hissed in frustration. "If I kidnapped your wife and sent you a package with her finger in it, along with orders to be followed or the next container would hold her head, would money seem terribly important to you?"

The Duke's jaw dropped. "I… see. Very well. Your group. We need to go down one floor and over to the east wing. Not far, in distance…"

"But distance doesn't matter so much if we take a crossbow bolt in the back getting there. Speaking of," Acherai held a hand against his own heart, murmured a few syllables while tracing a line in the air with his other hand. As he ended the spell, a veil of pale violet light hummed in the air around him. "There. Protection from Arrows is the name, but it also works on quarrels and thrown daggers you might see in a battle through narrow corridors. If anyone takes a shot at us from down the hallway, stand behind me."

"You never mentioned you were a mage. And couldn't you have cast your spell on me?" Entar muttered as they stepped into the hallway, Acherai turning his head both directions and seeing nobody.

"No, this spell targets only the caster. And even if I could have, I have only one casting per day and value my life more than yours."

"… That blunt honesty I found refreshing earlier has lost its sheen, young man."

The elf and the human took off down the hallways, slowly enough to not reveal their footsteps to those on other floors.

Someone unseen moved behind them, barely disturbing the dust with her passage. She smiled through none could see it, running her finger along the edge of an invisible dagger as she thought, _Ooooh, Slythe baby, you're gonna be so jealous when you see what I found first._

* * *

 

"You're going to die, you know," Angelo said warmly as Sephiria marched him down the street; Jaheira in front of them and Scar behind. Flaming Fist operatives, or at least the closest thing that was left since Angelo's rise to power, flanked them in the alleys on either side. At least one crossbowman in light armor was leaping from roof to roof above them as well, Imoen had spotted him early on.

"If so, I pass on to Torm's hall with peace in my heart, knowing I died facing great evil without fear," Sephiria replied calmly. "You'll not intimidate me. I have faced far worse than you."

"Oh, you _think_ you have. But trust me, some assassins and a gormless half-ogre thug don't hold a candle to what the law can do to a person, when properly motivated. And I _am_ the law in this city. Every beggar, every orphan, every petty sneak thief who wants a favor for the next time he's collared. They'll all be looking for you, a thousand eyes on every alley. Each one of them wanting to buy their way into my favor. Put you on the gallows so they never end up there themselves. The Fist isn't the only army I have, nor the most numerous. You're going. To die."

Sephiria sighed, and dug her sword in a little deeper. "I've faced Sarevok. Looked him in the eye. Do you think anything _you_ can say will scare me after that?"

"… No. No, I think you have plenty to be scared of without me," Angelo said softly. "If you'd given up, things would have been quick. I would have made sure of it. Beheading is fast, if you have the right axe. One solid swing and it's over. Now _he's_ after you. He'll come himself, in person. He has to, he hates you too much to let go, too much to trust it to anyone else."

"I know. I'll stop him," Sephiria said.

"Heh. If you had the slightest idea…" Angelo said with a chuckle.

"That I'm his sister?" Sephiria asked.

Sephiria tried not to smile at the reaction this spawned. It was petty of her to enjoy springing a surprise in such a way, and she'd have to pray to Torm for absolution later, but she had earned a little bit of fun.

"Seffie! What the five flippin' flamin' flyin' Hells does that mean?!" Imoen squeaked.

"The Anchevs didn't have a second kid. What are you getting on about?" Scar asked.

"Oh, whatever gods still listen to me have mercy, _that's_ why he wanted you dead so badly?" Angelo muttered, going terribly pale.

Jaheira said nothing. This was probably the most telling reaction of all.

"Immie, there are _nine_ Hells," Sephiria said by way of clarification, enjoying for once that she'd worked out something ahead of everyone else. That didn't happen very often.

" _Kinda not the point!_ "

"Oh, with this family it isn't too far off," Angelo said. "Look. I… clearly underestimated what Sarevok was asking me to hold onto, here. I'm not one of his acolytes, I don't kneel at the altar of the Dark Lord. But I know damn well that he's something to fear. You mess with him, you're dead no matter how much muscle you have or how many allies you can buy. I've killed more men than most folk have met, but I knew he was something different from the moment I first saw him hold a sword. If he's about to go on the warpath, and _you're_ about to stand in his way, and you two are the same thing, then I want _out_. I want out of this city, out of this whole damn _region._ I need to start running and never stop."

"You're going to die here, on a chopping block, and I'll be holding the axe," Scar said flatly. "Don't worry, it will be a sharp one, just like you said. Quick. I'm a copper, not a monster."

"Oh, _shut up,_ Loggerson," Angelo hissed. "You're in so deep you can't even see the surface anymore. A mercenary that thinks he's a watchman that thinks he's a hero. If anyone's not going to survive what comes next, it's _you_. I'm talking to the person who has a prayer of living through the week here."

"And you are doing it very poorly," Sephiria said.

"Then listen to me doing one better. I'll tell you everything. Everything I know, and who might know more. And in return, you forget you ever met me. I leave the city and never come back," Angelo said flatly. "Sarevok never told me what you _were_. I thought I had a shot at getting out of this, but if he finds out I let _you_ escape, he won't care. Even if I give him your head on a pike this very evening, he'll never forgive this. I've seen him when he's _really_ angry, and even Tamoko can't calm him. He'll kill whatever set him off and nothing short of an angry god will stop him. Except _maybe_ someone just like him."

"Talk, then," Sephiria said.

"Oh, no. Not that easy. You get us away from my men, then we _start_ to negotiate. My main concern is getting out of this with my head, and as soon as I tell you what I know, you lose any reason to let me have it."

"I am a paladin. You are a corrupt official. One of us is more trustworthy than the other," Sephiria said mildly. "And you can tell your men to stop following us at any time, if you worry about them."

"Bullshit. I don't care about them, they just know if I die they lose their meal ticket, so they're following us looking for a chance to break me out," Angelo snapped. "But they also know that if I turn traitor on the boss, putting an arrow in me is their best way to stay employed. So they're in my way right now. We need to lose them or kill them."

"You're a piece of work, bastard," Scar growled. "Listen to him sell out his own people without a thought, just like he sold out his commander. You can't trust a word this animal says. Cut his throat, and then we run while they're in shock."

"He is an evil man," Sephiria said firmly. "And his soul will burn for it one day. But Sarevok is a threat to thousands of lives. If what Angelo knows can help us stop that, we must learn it."

"Oh, a pragmatic paladin. It's so nice to meet one of you willing to talk sense… I suppose the family has something to do with that," Angelo said with a chuckle. "Now, plan?"

"I don't have one. Jaheira seems to, though," Sephiria said, causing the druidess to tense up instantly. "She's been totally silent this entire time, leading the way. I assume this has been for some reason."

"I have been… thinking," she said softly. "And I think I have much to share with you, that I perhaps should have shared earlier."

"I suspect I will agree. But…"

"But yes," Jaheira admitted, "I have been also considering how we might lose our pursuers while keeping our hostage. And I came to a conclusion, about nature. You see, the great mother has a place in all lands, even the cities of man. Though we may try to pretend that civilization drives away the harmony of nature, it will find a way to attain balance in the end."

From the alleys around them, sounds began to emerge. Skittering, yowling, the occasional snarl.

"And sometimes, this balance will be found in about thirty seconds, as I have been sending out a mental call for aid to the several hundred stray animals which dwell in any given city. Mostly rats, but I think we'll find a surprising number of dogs and cats as well, which is just one more sign that pet owners are terrible people and animals should not be bred for captivity. They should be swarming our pursuers shortly, at which point we should make two left turns and go down the sewer entrance while the guards are distracted," Jaheira said.

More into the 'hands on' philosophy of druidism, Jaheira was.

Imoen shook her head as the sounds of skittering, snarling, and (very suddenly) human voices screaming began to fill the city streets. "Seffie has a secret brother. Aunty Jahrie is a secret rat tamer. If Minsc turns out to be a secret poet, I'm just callin' this adventure a lost cause."

* * *

 

"Have I ever told you how much I love a woman with tattoos?" Coran asked.

"Have I ever told you how much I love murdering men who talk too much?" Shar-teel replied.

The elf sighed, not at all certain what was supposed to be coming next for him. This group wasn't turning out at all as he'd imagined, when he had come forth seeking wine, women, and song. There was no wine, nobody was singing, and the only 'women' were a drow and what he could only assume was some kind of rabid bear that had been polymorphed into human form. And the general moral fiber of the group was… lacking, to say the least. Now, certainly, Coran was a thief, but that didn't mean he was (by his own definition of the word) a _bad person_. He stole from people who could afford it, and only because it was exciting. Usually he didn't even steal anything physical, just the attention of their lonely wives.

The fact that most of the angry, rich husbands considered this _much worse_ than just taking their money was a bit lost on dear Coran. You'd have thought the bounty on his head would have been a hint, but he generally chose to ignore boring things like that.

In any case, the general problem remained. These people didn't seem very interested in amusement for the sake of it, instead doing things like, well, selling out a man they had just met to his certain death. He couldn't argue against it too strongly, as Eldoth Kron had clearly been a piece of trash, but it still felt harsh.

"So, you people have been a laugh and a half," Coran said, standing up. "And as much as I love staying in a mansion, they haven't given us any brandy and all the servants I've seen are men."

"Can I kill him?" Shar-teel asked.

"Wait until the next battle, and stab him in the back," Edwin muttered.

" _Did I say you could talk to me?!_ " she snapped.

"You see? This is the kind of sterling conversation that I will hate to miss. But the most sane person in this room is a woman whose species wants to destroy mine, and I fear that means this just isn't going to work out."

"I'm saner'n the drow," Kagain said with a pout.

"Yes, but I don't acknowledge the presence of short bearded men unless I have literally no other options," Coran said. "I'm afraid I'm going to take my share of the gold and head off to find a tavern. Thank you for your help with my little wyvern problem, but as I didn't sign up for a conspiracy and literally all of you are _awful,_ I think this group hasn't been a great fit for me."

And then, because the gods have a finally developed sense of timing, Acherai entered the room, the door slamming open as he and their host Duke Silvershield practically fell through it. The older man was clutching at side, blood flowing between his fingers, and his breath was coming in short gasps.

"Assassin in the building," Acherai muttered, wiping a line of blood flowing from a cut on his forehead. "She's a mage, she's fast as a damn cobra, and she isn't alone. We need to move."

Shar-teel pounded Coran on the back, smiling viciously as she drew her sword with her other hand. "HA! Still bored, elf? Don't worry, maybe you'll die here and solve _both_ our problems."

Coran sighed. "Yes, not the best fit at all."


	19. Chapter Eighteen

"O-oh dear," Khalid said, not entirely sure what other response was appropriate at that moment.

Imoen and Jaheira, who had gone out to meet with Commander Scar and try to get an ally within the Fist to help prove their innocence, had returned. And indeed, they had returned with Scar himself, as one would hope.

They had also returned with a half-elven man in inordinately fancy clothes, who was gagged and his hands tied very tightly together. And Sephiria, who he had been fairly certain was on Death Row at the time, and who was wearing only some blood-soaked bandages and a badly torn grey shift. Frankly, Khalid wasn't entirely sure which of these was more confusing to him.

Though thankfully, given their locale, both actually kind of fit in.

"Heeey, sexy. Feeling lonely today, finally?" a woman asked, poking her head past the cloth that served as a makeshift doorway into the section of the Undercellars they had blocked off as their own. She was not terribly attractive, looked rather exhausted and unhealthily thin (black lotus did that to a person) and wore entirely too much perfume, but she had tried to counter these facts by walking around in as little clothing as humanly possible. It was basically three belts and a veil. The veil wasn't on her face.

"N-no. And I have a-asked you more than once to please n-not come i-i-into-" Khalid began, only to be stopped when she, as usual, ignored him. Only instead of offering a price list, she just looked at the tied-up man and the half-naked woman, and sighed in frustration.

"Dammit. All that work and someone else lands a party in here first. Why is it the cute ones always get taken 'afore I can work out a payment plan?" the courtesan asked the universe sadly. "Well, next time ya feel lonely, hot stuff, look up Sasha. I bet I can do better than escaped prisoner/hostage roleplay."

Khalid winced as she left. "H-honestly. E-every day with her since we g-got here. D-do I just _look_ like someone w-who would need a p-prostitute?"

"Yes," Imoen said helpfully. Jaheira smacked her upside the head for the remark, which made Khalid a little happy despite himself. It was good to have a wife who stood by you even in the hard times. And these _were_ hard times.

The Undercellars would not have been his choice for a place to stay, even had he been a young unmarried man. They were a good place to hide: being populated almost entirely by courtesans, drug dealers, and people cheating on their spouses, it was very certain nobody here would _ever_ willingly walk into the Flaming Fist barracks to loudly declare their need to see justice served. But the place was just spiritually draining, a den of despair hidden under a haze of meaningless sex and hallucinogens. Nobody here was a good person, or even a happy person. The Undercellars were where you came when reality had beaten you down so much you simply needed to abandon it, along with all your senses, for a few hours of pointless, empty sensation.

Also, Sasha just could _not_ take a hint that he wasn't interested. Happily married, thank you very much.

"How stands things, my love?" Jaheira asked. "Please tell me your time here has gone better than mine outside."

Khalid sighed. "W-well, I can't say i-it's been valuable. Xan mostly s-spends his time convincing c-customers drugs w-won't fill the void in their lives, because nothing ever will. Dynaheir is negotiating with a r-regular to deliver us s-supplies, and Minsc has no idea where he is."

"So did Dynaheir ever say 'yes' to teachin' me some spells? I know we were only gone like two hours, but I figured she mighta changed her mind in that time," Imoen asked cheerfully.

Ignoring her, Jaheira said, "Well, we had some luck, though if it was good or bad is debatable. Duke Eltan is, as far as can be told, dead at the hands of the conspiracy. Thankfully, we did manage to procure his killer, and Sephiria actually managed to free _herself._ Something of Gorion must have come to rest in her after all."

"It isn't Gorion I am concerned about, at the moment," Sephiria said softly. "You promised answers, Jaheira. And I think I've been through enough to earn them, of late."

Jaheira sighed. "We have much to learn from this Angelo fellow first. If you don't mind, I…"

"Jaheira. I need to know this," Sephiria said softly. "Please. I've already worked out much of it myself, but I can't go on with people like you and… and _this_ thing knowing more about me than I know about myself!"

"Did you just call me a 'thing?'" Angelo muttered.

Jaheira sighed, sitting in a pile of cushions and rubbing her temples. "Fine. If you intend to be troublesome about it, I can illuminate much. I was there with your father the night he found you, after all. Khalid, listen well and catch any mistakes I make, it has been too many years to be totally certain of it all.

"It begins…"

* * *

 

… _On a day when the gods are reminded they are no more than masters of their own destiny than the mortals they govern. Less, in some ways._

_For many long years they had shirked their duties, concerning themselves more with the endless conflict among themselves than with ruling the world they served as lords and guardians. Shar and Selune; Bane and Tyr; Myrkul and Lathander; the gods had come to be defined less by their roles or portfolios, and more by their disdain for each other, using mortals as chess pieces in a game that could have no ending. The final straw came, however, when two of the gods tried to rise above their stations in a way that could not be forgiven. Bane the Tyrant and Myrkul of the Dead, seeking power over their fellows as they had once sought godhood together, stole the Tablets of Fate on which were written the Divine Truth._

_The punishment was swift and merciless. Ao, the Overfather of Toril and ruler of all its many gods, decreed that until the Tablets were returned, all Toril's gods would walk among the worshippers they had ignored so long, trapped as mortal avatars. Chaos reigned as the prayers of clerics fell on deaf ears, and magic went mad with the Weave torn asunder. Wars sparked across the world, and in the madness mortals were not the only ones to fall. More than one god was killed in the carnage, their blood spilling as easily as any human's. Bane, Myrkul, Mystra, Torm…_

_And Bhaal._

_The lord of murder, patron of assassins, Bhaal was among the darkest deities in the Realms. His death at the hands of a mortal was not one that would be mourned by any save perhaps those who drew direct power from his patronage. But the death of a god was a portentous event, regardless, and one that had come before the eyes of more than one oracle. And through them, the eyes of Bhaal himself._

_Bhaal was an immortal, and may have never believed his death would come. But he had been a mortal man once, and a professional assassin. One did not excel in such a career without learning to plan for every eventuality, and so he began to prepare._

_For decades, before the Time of Troubles had ever begun, Bhaal had taken on many avatars and made many secret journeys to the surface of Toril to walk among the mortals. On each of these, he would single out a woman of one of the mortal races. Some were his priestesses or the monstrous allies to his church's dark works, and would submit willingly. Some were innocents, unimportant women taken by force and left broken by dark roadsides. Bhaal did not distinguish, and did not care: all that mattered to him were the results._

_And the result was that from each such encounter, a child was conceived. A score and more of mortal progeny, each carrying the power of Bhaal buried deep in their blood. A divine spark that would guide them as they grew, pushing them toward the darkness of their father's will. And as they grew in power and depravity, they would die, each and every one. Whether they fell to the blades of their own mothers showing proper loyalty, met powers greater than their own, or came into conflicts with each other seeking their father's power, their divine blood would lead each one to self-destruction. That blood would be gathered, then, the divine spark within each child collected._

_And if Bhaal should indeed fall, their bloody deaths would be a proper fuel for his return indeed._

* * *

 

Sephiria sat in silence, listening to every word and wishing very much that it didn't all fit so well with what she'd already worked out. "And… and my mother…"

"Was one of those women. And you are one of the children," Jaheira said. She briefly considered trying to sugarcoat the truth, but… there really wasn't a way to do that in this case. Besides, it wasn't really in her nature.

"Gods, Seffie, I'm so sorry," Imoen said gently. "I… you just need to know this doesn't matter, okay? You're still family to me, no matter what god might be your papa. I still love ya and I promise I'll keep right on stealing your dessert and hiding frogs in your underclothes."

Sephiria sighed. "Imoen, please, stop helping. Jaheira… my mother?"

Jaheira winced. "Khalid, I…"

Khalid placed a hand on her shoulder and sighed. "You were taken as a child, by a c-cult of Bhaal. They s-s-sought to… to speed the prophecy by s-sacrificing as many of the children as they could gather. Your m-mother did not survive, child. I'm sorry."

"Gods above," Sephiria murmured, her eyes closed. "I knew she was dead. But to hear it… sweet Torm have mercy. Gods above…"

"Oh my," Xan said, poking his head into the small enclosure. "And I thought we were doomed before."

Imoen smacked him, because there were some things you just had to do when you were family. Then she walked back over to Seffie, put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and waited until she raised her head.

"You okay?" she asked softly, once Sephiria had taken a few deep breaths and composed herself somewhat.

"No, but I don't have time to be 'okay,'" her sister replied, her tone quiet but strong. "Thank you, Jaheira, Khalid. I… none of that was pleasant to hear, but it needed to be said. And I will have a bout of religious terror once I've had time to process it, I'm sure. But for now, we need to gather the group, and have a discussion with Mr. Angelo."

She turned to the gagged half-elf, and her expression was very cold.

"And considering he is a murderer who serves the scion of a dark god, I do have to mention to him that there is little reason for us to make this discussion comfortable for him, unless he tells us _everything_ he knows."

Angelo gulped.

* * *

 

Zhalimar Cloudwulfe was Sarevok's most loyal servant. Not the highest-ranked; Tazok, Angelo, even Winski had positions of greater clout and physical reward, but he was the most loyal by far. He and his band masqueraded as Sarevok's private guards, but the truth was that they were closer to his cult; a band of madmen and murderers worshipping him as the god he would one day be. They were absolutely devoted, competent, and their aid in the battle in the Iron Throne lobby had been what allowed Sarevok to successfully kill his father and pin the crime on Sephiria in a single perfect moment. He was unspeakably useful to the cause.

And now, he was dead.

Sarevok hunched over the corpse, his breath coming in deep, wild gasps, blood up his hands all the way to his elbows. He had literally torn the man apart, the spiked gauntlets of his armor as effective as any sword in ripping through flesh, and his inhuman strength more than enough to pull tendons apart.

Tamoko stood to the side of the chamber, her gaze lowered, saying nothing. Sarevok's lover she might have been, but she had seen his degradation as the plan proceeded. As enraged as he was now, he would kill anyone who caught his notice, even her.

"She," he said, his voice little more than a feral growl, " _escaped._ "

"Yes, milord."

"Take the rest of my acolytes. Lead them personally, Tamoko, and bring Cythandria with you. Kill her, kill her friends, and kill Angelo for his incompetence," he said.

Tamoko winced. Cythandria was one of Winski Perorate's two apprentice mages, a vile shrew of a woman who hated Tamoko with an earnest passion because of her intimacy with Sarevok. Further, Cythandria had made little secret of the fact Sarevok also… _dallied_ with her from time to time, ensuring this distaste was very much mutual. There were few things she wished to do _less_ than work with Cythandria for any length of time. If anything, she had been tempted more than once to ignore her lord's wishes and hurl the insufferable harlot from the top of the Iron Throne tower.

But Sarevok had commanded. And when Sarevok was in this mood, there was no safe way to argue with him.

And he had been in this mood more and more often, of late. Since the armor had been completed, and he began to indulge daily in the power locked in his blood, his temper had been mercurial. Dangerous. He had always been a violent man, from the day she'd met him, but also intelligent, methodical, capable of patiently plotting for months or even years before making his move at the perfect moment. Of late, well…

The mangled corpse of his chief acolyte lying at his feet just for being the bearer of bad news was an indicator of how much his self-control had collapsed.

Tamoko had met Sarevok five years ago, and the passion he'd ignited in her almost instantly had never dulled, rather growing deeper into a true, helpless love. She had never claimed to be a good person, standing alongside him as his power and ambition drove him to ever great depths of depravity and feeling little guilt. The faith of the Eight Million Gods had many paths to power, and the spirits and deities Tamoko followed were gods of passion and elemental fury, the embodiments of storms, flames, and war. Beings who represented the most primal and destructive aspects of nature and the human spirit. This had given her great, great power, and she only admired Sarevok's drive to pursue paths she had initially assumed were similar in nature.

But the path she walked, a harsh faith that required much sacrifice and dedication, had paid dividends in power and asked nothing of her she could not give. The path Sarevok had chosen was no longer strengthening him. It was devouring him from within, his will slowly being subsumed by the power in his blood. With each passing day he was less the man she knew, and more Bhaal's avatar on earth.

While the gods she worshipped could be cruel and unrestrained, it was the unfocused cruelty of a hurricane, not the pointless sadism and bloodthirst of the Lord of Murder. And more to the point, she had never felt as if any of them were inside her head, trying to remake her mind in their own image.

She left her lover's chambers to gather his acolytes and summon Cythandria. But as she walked, she found her mind leading her down paths she had never before considered, and she did not dismiss them as she might once have.

* * *

 

Viconia knelt over Lord Silvershield, looking mildly annoyed at being forced to heal a human whose life did not directly benefit her. Shar was not the sort of deity to lovingly approve such a thing, Acherai knew, though he truly didn't care overmuch about Viconia's faith so long as she used it to keep him alive and in a position of power.

And it was probably safer than her asking Lolth to do it, at least.

"Can he walk? If he dies, we've gained nothing here," Acherai said flatly.

"He will not die anytime soon. _You_ might if you continue to irritate me," Viconia replied, stepping back as the Duke rose to his feet shakily.

"You're the one who loves it when I'm assertive, darling," he replied. "Duke Silvershield, I am _praying_ you have some secret passage out of this manor? I hurt the assassin, but she isn't dead and it's only a matter of time before she recovers and brings friends back to take another stab at you."

"Secret passage? This isn't a chapbook, boy."

"You act like it's a ridiculous idea, and yet it would clearly be helpful right now," Coran said mildly, his bow trained on the door. "Because there's a better than average chance that someone is going to burn this manor down to get to us once they realize we have a defensible position here."

"And considering who runs the Flaming Fist now, they won't have much worry about guards interrupting them," Silvershield admitted sadly. "Well. All right, there is no secret passage, but you have mage and cleric support. I assume between the two of you, you could break down a wall?"

"Most likely. You're getting at a particular structure?"

"Two rooms over, we'll find the edge of the house that overlooks the western wall. There's an apple tree between the wall and the house we could use to climb down to the bottom floor and bypass the stairs, and no windows are in that room to ensure nobody could use the tree to get _into_ the house. This also means the assassins likely won't have bothered to put a man on watching it. If you can break down the wall in that room, we should be able to get out of the building and into the streets before they realize what we're doing."

"All right! Then all we need is to get two rooms down the hall. We can manage that," Coran said cheerfully.

Entar smiled like a hungry wolf. "Assuming of course that I was willing to leave my wife and daughter here to die. I am not. You will save them, or at least try, or you'll get nothing even if you get me out."

"Oh."

Acherai cursed under his breath. "Dammit, a hard bargainer. You're very lucky you need to be alive for this to work, old man."

"I've made a career on that very statement."

"All right. Coran, you're with me. We move fast and quiet, and we stay out of sight. The rest of you, fortify the room we need to secure our escape. Kill anything that comes in except the two of us, we can't trust any of the household staff. Move, people!"

He did so, then, following his own commands and slipping into the shadows of the hallway, the moon outside casting more than enough for a skilled thief to avoid detection. Coran followed behind him, equally silent and stepping in the darkness with the same practiced ease.

Shame it didn't matter, given that they were already being watched.

* * *

 

Kristin giggled, running a finger idly through the blood on her dagger while she watched the silly puppies plan through her Wizard Eye. Invisible and no larger than an actual eyeball, it was ideal for scouting targets; the only real issue was that it could only see, not hear. Luckily, Kristin could read lips.

She hadn't expected Entar Silvershield to have a mage of his own in tow when she'd stabbed him in the kidney. She'd made the attack, put her dagger right where she wanted; a death that was both slow and not easily prevented, damage that would let him suffer for awhile before he went to sleep forever. Then, just as she struck out at his friend, wanting to kill the scrawny elf for the sheer joy of doing it, she'd found her dagger intercepted on his own, and a glowing palm leveled at her chest.

Then she was on fire. That hadn't been much fun.

She'd only survived by luck, she knew it. Lashing out madly, something a veteran blade would have called stupidly sloppy even by gutter-fighter standards, but she was damn fast and you couldn't predict something so chaotic. The elf had been nicked near the eye and she'd been able to flee back to the ground floor, roll out the flames and quaff a potion or two. And her baby had found her, then, his hands still slick with the blood of the serving staff he'd been taking care of while she hunted Entar, and the world was all right again.

"Slythey-baby, you know what they're doing? I saw it all and they think they have a plaaaan," she purred, pursing her lips lightly in the way that always made her baby want to kiss her.

"Oh, baby, you know I love it when you outwit people. They got no idea, no _idea_ my sweet Kristin played them so bad," her lover and partner-in-crime said, punctuating the sentence with his own gleeful chuckle as he flipped his shortsword from hand to hand, the pale red glow along the black blade showcasing the enchantments on the weapon.

"Mmm, honey, you know you can't go talking sweet like that on the job, you know you can't," she murmured, nuzzling against him. "How's a girl supposed to stay focused on her work when her man is being so damn romantic? Here I am supposed to be focusing on painting Silvershield's house with his blood, but all I can think about is my big strong Slythey-baby. And you do it on purpose, you naughty boy."

"Oh, you know it. You know your Slythey, baby," he murmured, "You know I love my work, you know I do baby, but I can't think about it when my princess is showing off how amazing she is. The only thing in this big beautiful world that makes me happier than skinning a man alive is being with my sweet Krissie."

She could hardly resist after _that._ She grabbed Slythe roughly by his hair, tangled into filthy dreadlocks that had been permanently stained a shade too dark by old blood, and dragged him into a kiss that he returned with fire and passion that equaled her own. She moaned into his mouth, her hands tracing his muscles even as his own ran over her curves, seeking a hold to tug at his clothes, and…

Someone coughed. Annoyed, the assassin couple broke off their embrace to glare at the half-dozen dopplegangers that served as their supports in this job; each of them was currently in the shape of a Shadow Thief, right down to the black studded armor and the daggers dripping wyvern venom. It was kind of annoying, frankly; Kristin didn't like the Shadow Thieves, they thought they were so much _better_ than her and Slythe because they were 'professional' and 'didn't stop to torture the target's associates for fun.' Pricks.

Slythe didn't even bother to hide his similar feelings as he turned to them, snapping, "What are you still doing here? Do you not _see_ we want to be alone?"

"Wanna kill them, Slythey-baby? Wanna kill them good and slow?" Kristin giggled, nibbling on her lover's ear. "I bet they _screeeeeeeam_ …"

He sighed, and Kristin felt a surge of disappointment as that meant he was about to suggest they do their _job._ So boring. "I would, baby, I really would, but you know that would annoy Sarevok."

She shivered, her lust for both blood and more traditional sources momentarily forgotten. One didn't annoy Sarevok if one wanted to live a long, healthy life; he had all the brutality of Slythe and Kristin, even less patience when he got angry, and precisely zero sense of fun. Pissing him off was a one-way ticket to pain and horror, and those were only fun when they were happening to people that weren't her and Slythe. "Oh. Right."

"So who about you tell us what you saw, baby girl, and we'll get on with this."

"Can we hit the Undercellars after, baby? Caaaaan we?"

"Oh, baby, you know we can. I'm gonna take enough black lotus to make the whole world burn away into raw sensation, I'm gonna tie you to a wall, then make you watch while I-"

The doppleganger leader coughed again.

"… Right. Krissie, baby, we do need to stay on task," he said. "Tell me what they're planning?"

"Two of them are going to get Entar's wife and brat. We need them alive anyway, to be our reliable witnesses, so I figure send a few of the jokers here to poke at them with daggers, show off as 'Shadow Thieves.'"

"Mmmmmmm, my baby is a _genius._ "

"You know it, baby. You know your Krissie."

"And the others, baby girl? What else did my princess see with her scary little eye?"

She smiled. "They're gonna try to get out through a wall on the west side. Break down the outer wall and climb down a tree. I was thinking maybe I could go set it on fire, while you go play? I bet you can think of some great games to play with silly people stuck in a tiny little room, all trapped and scared."

"My little blackhearted angel is giving me a present? My sweet baby is giving me the final kill?"

"Mmmmm, I am. You like that, baby? That make you hot?"

"I wanna take you right now. Right here like an animal while I'm still bloody from that whiny maid I caught in the dining room."

"Oooooooooooh, baby, you always say the most romantic things. Did she scream? How long did you make her last?" Kristin purred.

"After the job, baby. After we go down in history as killers of Dukes, I'm gonna tell my sweet baby everything and listen to her _squeal_."

The dopplegangers shuddered, the two of them assigned to waylay Silvershield's wife and daughter taking the opportunity to actually _sprint_ out of the room. Literal man-eating monsters they might have been, but gods above, there had to be _standards._

* * *

 

Acherai fought hard to ignore the growing distress in his gut as he and Coran slid from shadow to shadow with practiced ease.

For starters, this manor was entirely too large, closer to a castle than a house. Who needed thirty rooms to house a four-person family, for Mask's sake? When he was (and he _would_ be, one day) wealthier and more powerful than Silvershield, he was definitely going to invest in more practical living arrangements.

But despite this annoyance at rich people that naturally came in some degree to anyone who had grown up poor, he had a deeper worry as well. That being that they _really_ should have been noticed by now. He and Coran both had a good deal of skill at sneaking about. He would even go so far as to suspect Coran's boots were enchanted to muffle sound, given how he was walking heel-toe instead of lightly on the balls of his feet, and yet made no more noise than Acherai himself. But there was a big difference between sneaking past people who were unaware and asleep in their snug manor, and sneaking past trained killers actively hunting for you in confined corridors. That was not a matter of going unnoticed, because you _would_ be seen at some point. It was about buying a few extra minutes and hopefully starting the inevitable engagement with surprise in your favor.

And yet, they had made their way past the third bathroom, lounge, _upstairs conservatory with actual birds,_ and _second_ library ( _I hate rich people. Not that I'm jealous or anything_ ) to find a room with poorly muffled sobs coming from within as someone female tried and failed to remain silent, and not come across so much as a whisper of leather or the gleam of a dagger being drawn. So either the enemy was _much_ better at remaining hidden than two professional thieves, or they were not actively moving anywhere nearby them.

And that was worrisome, because the Lady Silvershield and her idiot daughter were important only in that they were needed to convince the man of the house to help. If he died before they got his family out safely, they lost their support network before they'd gotten to _do_ anything with it.

_Focus, Acherai. You just need to get two women to another room and kill anything that tries to stop you. You have Coran, and he will serve as an admirable shield if you need one. You have most of a day's spells ready, and you were even clever enough to mutter out a Vocalize on the way here so no need to talk. You're not half-bad with a dagger. You can do this, quickly and quietly._

He tapped the door lightly, and murmured, "Ladies Silvershield? Lord Entar sent us to-"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!" came the piercing shriek from inside the room.

 _Oh for Mask's sake,_ he thought with a wince, slipping a hand to his weapon and setting the other in the beginnings of a spell sign. If there was anyone nearby, they _had_ to make a move now.

"Oh for Tymora's sake, Skie, _do_ stop that," an older and significantly more annoyed female voice said. "You, at the door. Prove my husband truly sent you, and prove your intentions."

"Look through the peephole, dammit. I'm the one who delivered news of your son's death to you! If I wanted your family dead, I had ample opportunity to do it without killing half the serving staff downstairs," Acherai hissed. "Your husband is alive and in a position to escape, but he won't leave without you two. So open the door, because we need to _move."_

The door did open, Acherai noticed, and he glanced in to confirm the target. He expected two worried noblewomen in frilly dresses, probably with tear-streaked makeup.

He saw one woman that fit that description, though she had not apparently been crying. If anything, she looked as though she had never cried in her life, and since he'd have placed her age at around fifty that was pretty significant. She _had_ to be the Lady Silvershield; he hadn't known Eddard long, but it wasn't a stretch to assume the 'iron lady' type was very much his thing.

The other woman was much younger, a cute raven-haired girl, in her late teens, twenty at the oldest. She _did_ have tear-streaked makeup, but she wasn't in a frilly dress. Rather, she was in gold-trimmed and shiny, but otherwise mostly practical leathers. Also, she didn't look scared, she looked _furious._

Also she had a crossbow, and her mother was very noticeably stepping back from her in open shock. "Skie! Why do you have such a-"

"They. Took. My. _Eldoth_ ," she hissed, and opened fire.

* * *

 

Sephiria fought off an urge to kill Angelo that had _nothing_ to do with Bhaal's influence on her.

"You treacherous, loathesome, vile little _cur,_ " Scar snarled from behind her, getting across her own thoughts fairly well. "You betray not only your command, but your entire _city_ to that lunatic? How low can one man _sink_ , Angelo?"

"Yikes," Imoen said.

"All of them?" Xan asked, and even _he_ seemed a bit aghast. "He actually wants to kill _all_ of the Dukes of Baldur's Gate? Gods. I'm hardly a student of politics, and even I know that would be mass chaos in the whole region. I mean, it isn't as though it could make the world much worse, but it would still be quite awful."

"Not helping, buddy," Imoen said.

"O-oh dear. Jaheira. This is a bit above our rank. Do you think we should…" Khalid began.

"We have little time and no reliable means of getting a message outside the city," Jaheira said, rubbing her temples as if it would speed her thoughts in some manner. "We shall have to deal with this, the seven of us. Once Minsc and Jaheira return, we leave."

"To where, precisely?" Sephiria asked. "Because our enemy is in control of far too much of the city already, and his plans are clearly beginning to come to their final fruition. If he manages to kill the Grand Dukes, parleying his current goodwill into a leadership position will not be difficult in the chaos that follows. Amn will be blamed, and Sarevok will have war. Because that is all he truly wants, you know. Murder on a grand scale."

Jaheira winced. "You are certain he is your brother, then? Half-brother, at least."

"As certain as one can be. He has the same power. He spoke to something in my blood," Sephiria murmured, her mind drifting back to the cold darkness that Sarevok had inspired in her. "He's twisted inside. I don't know what he seeks, ultimately; Bhaal's power? His rebirth? But I know how he seeks it, and the only method he would use is that which brings the most death to the world. In our 'father's' name."

"We need proof. Some evidence he killed Eltan, to turn the city against him," Scar said flatly. "And you miscounted earlier, lady druid, because I'm definitely a part of this until the end. You have _eight_ to work with."

"A welcome aid, then. And as for proof, we have Angelo," Jaheira pointed out. "The assassin himself. He must have some physical evidence, and his testimony will aid as well."

"But he will _not_ be helping you further. We had a bargain," Angelo snapped.

"I don't bargain with corrupt murderers," Jaheira snapped. "I cut my teeth on southern slavers twisting the government with their coins. I know how to deal with your kind, little man, and it is a swift blade to the throat. If you want to live to stand trial, you will _do as you are told._ "

"Jaheira," Sephiria said firmly. "We _did_ have a bargain, and he has kept his end. We shouldn't…"

"No, child, _you_ had a bargain. My word was never given, and I do not accept him earning his freedom when he is complicit in the planned deaths of thousands," Jaheira said flatly. "Free him if you wish, but I will kill him before the bonds hit the ground, I swear this. He'll not escape his crimes on my watch."

Scar smiled. "I like her."

"She's taken," Khalid said primly.

"Bah, best ladies always are."

Sephiria sighed helplessly. "Well, sir Angelo, you have your ultimatum. I dislike the idea, but I appear to be outvoted, and truthfully you deserve to die for your crimes. You'll remain our prisoner."

"Um, guys," Imoen said hesitantly. "I mean, I don't wanna just kill this guy, but I also seriously don't think we can trust him. He's clearly gonna try something!"

And then the instant she finished that sentence, the very _second_ , an arrow slammed through the opening in the canvas of their makeshift shelter and took Angelo in the side of his neck. The shock was such that none could even _scream_ as the man fell sideway like a puppet with his strings cut, unable to make so much as a sound as he twitched helplessly from the missile embedded in his spine. It was almost trance-like, watching for nearly three long seconds in total stunned silence, until Imoen finally broke it.

"Well, I didn't think he was gonna try _that!_ "


	20. Chapter Nineteen

It was accepted, socially speaking, that arrows being fired into the tent you were in, even if it was less a tent and more half a sewer pipe with a tarp over it, was a bad thing. Sephiria acted based on this belief.

She dove to one side, tacking Imoen to the ground as another arrow, fired with the same deadly precision as the one that had killed Angelo, tore through the thin canvas of the tent to pass through the space her heart had been in less than a second earlier. " _Everyone move!"_ the young paladin shouted, trying her best to cover her sister despite the fact she hadn't had time to find any damn _armor…_

"I'm _trying!_ " Imoen grumbled, wiggling free to grab her own bow and disappearing from the tent to scout out the enemy. "Heads down and find somethin' solid to hide behind, ya dope! You don't even have pants!"

"I wasn't going to say anything," Xan muttered.

Khalid and Jaheira, being the closest things to sane one could find around here (and anyone who knew them well would have called that _very sad_ ) were already in motion; Khalid down low, moving forward in a hunched motion, huddled as well as he could behind the shield he'd managed to scrounge in their time down here to replace the one Sarevok had destroyed. Luckily, weapons were something brigands always needed, and so entrances to the Undercellars often came up near shops selling them cheaply and discretely.

An arrow struck the shield and went through it, stopping mere inches from his shoulder.

Unluckily, he supposed, cheap weapons were also often _worthless trash_. "Jaheira!"

His wife was already deep in her first casting, relying on him to guard her, but her slight nod told him she was aware of the issue; he could not protect her as well as he'd have liked. Couldn't even truly protect himself.

"Over yonder, behind the blue tent, takin' aim through it! And there's more coming at us from all sides!" Imoen screamed, shouting to be heard over a din that Khalid uncomfortably recognized as growing panic. More than one unlucky lady of the night or patron screamed in dismay, tents beginning to collapse as patrons and proprietors alike tried to run from something roughly barreling through them. To their left, a fire had begun among several of the tightly-packed makeshift tents. To their right, the crowd parted before a man easily six feet tall in full plate, drawing back his own bowstring to catch them in a crossfire. And most worrisome of all, from the path directly in front of them, a pair of full-grown ogres appeared from thin air, one of them stopping to lift a john who hadn't run fast enough and sink its tusks into his throat.

The scent of fear began to overpower even the cheap perfumes and burning narcotics of the Undercellars. And Khalid thought he detected more than a little bit of blood underneath it.

* * *

 

Thankfully, despite owning a very good, expensive crossbow (that she had somehow bought without her mother knowing, which spoke to more sneakiness than you'd expect in a pampered rich girl stupid enough to believe her one true love was _Eldoth Kron_ ), Skie Silvershield was an _atrocious_ shot.

Less thankfully, you didn't need to be a great shot to hit something five feet away.

The shot was not a kill, but it did slam into Acherai's bicep. He was wearing the dark robes they had taken from Davaeorn, and the magic in them was better than any garment he'd ever seen. The cloth resisted the crossbow bolt better than any chain-mail, and it did not pierce his flesh.

Which is not to say it didn't hurt. A lot.

He fell to one knee, hissing at the shock of pain running up his arm as the limb went numb. He had put away his dagger and left his staff with the group where it would not be in the way as he snuck through a darkened house. He dearly wished he had _some_ kind of weapon in his hand, because Skie immediately ran forward, screaming like a lunatic and slammed her empty crossbow into his jaw. It was not a polished combat move, and one of the arms of the weapon cracked off.

Still hurt.

And as the lights flashed behind his eyes and he fell backwards, he couldn't help but feel this was _the most_ humiliating pain he had ever felt. And he had once slipped during a burglary and fallen off a roof into a horse's water trough.

"My Eldoth!" she screamed, raising the half-broken weapon over her head to once again use a piece of precision equipment as a club. Acherai was about to have his head smashed with wood, and yet all he could think was, _Gods she has an annoying voice_. "You took my _Eldoth!"_

Coran stepped across and punched her in the face. "Um… sorry."

" _Skie!"_ Lady Silvershield shouted, watching her daughter join the elf she'd just clubbed on the floor. "You… you…"

"I'm sorry, milady, dreadfully so, but there are a lot of people trying to kill you right now and your daughter did shoot her rescuer," Coran said, putting as much smooth calm into the words as he could. He was not, traditionally speaking, a master of social manipulation (in point of fact, most men he met hated him), but he did have a certain talent for getting a comely lass to lower her guard (which was _why_ the men hated him). Even Skie, who he had _just punched_ , looked a little flustered at his tone.

"You… struck me," Skie said. Her tone suggested she wasn't _totally_ sure what to make of this.

"And I will gleefully spend the rest of my life making it up to you, fair lady. Know that I would never, ever, lay a finger on a woman save in the direst of circumstances, when her very life was at stake," he said, lowering a hand to help the young noblewoman to her feet. He did not add, _Or if_ my _life was at stake, because she turned out to be a mage and also turned out to be the jealous type. And she landed in a pig trough, so it wasn't like I seriously harmed her. Certainly not as much as she was going to seriously harm_ me.

All of that was true, but he it would have seriously hurt the mood.

"I don't think you should have struck me," Skie said. "But, um, you do seem nice. Like, in a good way, but… you shouldn't have. But I'm sure you had a good reason. But it was _mean_. I like your hair."

"It is always inappropriate of any gentleman to strike a lady, for any reason," her mother confirmed, her voice suggesting she was rolling her eyes on the inside. "But on the other hand, my dear, you _did_ shoot one our rescuers and then smash him about the face with a piece of wood, whilst assassins are still in the manor. You were quite hysterical."

"They took my Eldoth! The love of my life!" Skie snapped, remembering why she had been angry and why this handsome elf with the smooth voice wasn't going to make her happy at all, even when he kissed her hand after pulling her gently to her feet, which made her blush slightly. But in an _angry way_.

"You met him _once_ ," Acherai grumbled, shakily rising to his feet. "And let me be very blunt with you, milady, he didn't even like you."

"How _dare-_ "

"Acherai, perhaps now isn't the time to antagonize the girl? She's had a traumatic day," Coran interjected.

"So have I. I've experienced literal trauma, of the physical variety," he snapped. "Like the fact I cannot see out of my left eye and I'm fairly sure my cheekbone is cracked, from a crazed brat _smashing my face._ "

"Think of the assassins, my friend. They're still out there."

Acherai lowered his tone to a level that wouldn't carry outside the room, and said, "They're not out there, they're in here. Two doors down the hallway. That door was closed when we passed, now it's open a crack. One of the shadows inside is too dark to be natural. There's someone wearing black standing in it."

Coran winced, and wished he had brought a dagger instead of a longsword. This was going to be messy in the hallways. "At least it won't be an ambush. Good eye."

"I can help!" Skie said, her tone excited, and yet, oddly enough, modulated to the same low volume. It was a surprising level of competence considering, both elves noticed wryly, she seemed to forget 'her Eldoth' the moment something else caught her attention. "I know how to fight. Um. Sort of. I can shoot a crossbow!"

"You broke your crossbow, milady," Coran said mildly.

"… Yes. But... um, I also have a knife! It's in my drawers," she said. "I kept it with my makeup where nobody would look. I'm not very good with it, but I can probably 'shank' someone if they 'give me lip.'"

"Excuse me?" Her mother asked. Her tone was _not_ modulated to an acceptably soft volume, but it _was_ extremely cold. That was almost as good, in her world.

"I needed to run off with Eldoth and you wouldn't let me! So I snuck out a few times to practice. For when he came for me on a white horse."

"He didn't own a horse," Acherai said.

"He smelled a bit musky. Might have been horse," Coran countered.

"Donkey. Trust me, I can tell the difference. He rode a donkey until he had to actually meet someone he wanted to be impresse, then stole a horse to use. Or bought a beat-up old screw of a mare for a song, and gussied it up to look like a real horse for awhile. Sell it after he didn't need to be impressive anymore," Acherai said. "It's how you stay unnoticed. Don't look like someone people will notice until you have no other choice."

"Speaking from experience?" Coran asked wryly.

Acherai sniffed, and shifted his dagger to his good hand, sliding a wand out of his sleeve into the weakened one. "Please. I'm _always_ impressive. It's the curse of being me. I have the one on the left."

"Right."

"Middle!" Skie offered.

"Only two of them, dear," Coran said.

"You're _smart_ ," Skie squealed. Against all odds, she had _still_ kept her voice modulated low enough to not be heard. Acherai would have been impressed if he wasn't so _deeply_ filled with wrath. He decided to take it out on someone else.

The shadow down the hall moved slightly. He didn't hear the sound of a weapon being unsheathed, but he _felt_ it. The moment where a shadow becomes a threat, that feeling anyone who's ever walked down a dark alley has gotten when they realize they're being hunted.

Of course, if you grew up in dark alleys, walked down them every day, learned how to look deep into every shadow to see which ones were just a _little_ too dark, you also learned quickly enough: just because you were being hunted, didn't necessarily mean you were _prey._ Sometimes the garter snake turns out to be a viper, and sometimes the bulge in the mark's clothes is not a pouch of coins but a very sharp knife.

Acherai pointed the wand into the shadows that were slightly too dark, and spoke the command word. And then, well, it was hard to hide in the darkness when you were sharing the room with a bolt of lightning.

* * *

 

The people who dwelt in this place were, as a whole, sick and weak. Tamoko had no respect for anyone who would willingly abandon the world for a haze of drugs and rutting, but there was little point to _massacring_ them. This could have been done quickly and quietly as soon as the scrying found the girl and her group. A dozen arrows. A single spell to burn the tent with them inside. Instead, the Acolytes of Sarevok had given in to their base instincts, indulging their desperate need to kill every single thing that crossed their path no matter how little a threat it was.

They had approached it with practiced skill and fanatical enthusiasm. Aasim and Diyab, the clerics of Cyric, had started fires at two of the entrances, forcing the entire crowd to stampede to those that remained unblocked. Gardush, the fighter, was poised in one of these, and between the storm of arrows he fired at the target, he took the time to loose a random shot into the terrified mob, making the ones at the lead turn, run other directions, turn the crowds against themselves. Naaman and Alai, slipping through the mad crowd, steadily moving to flank as their allies used spell and arrow to pin the enemy into one defensive position. And as they passed, more than one harmless addict or whore found themselves hamstrung by an unseen blade, falling screaming to the floor in the middle of a stampede, tripping up others and leading more than one to be trampled to death. And Cythandria's 'pets,' a pair of ogres she had magically enslaved, drove the survivors into a wild frenzy as they stormed through the crowd, hurling survivors and corpses alike aside as if they weighed nothing.

It was an effective distraction, she supposed, and would certainly disguise any evidence of their presence, but it was all so _pointless_ when they could have finished the task quickly and efficiently in minutes, and already been on their way home with news of success. Sarevok would have enjoyed it, she knew, and that made things worse rather than better as she once again found herself wondering how very little humanity he even had left to lose, if he could find pleasure in such mindless chaos.

And her company wasn't making it any better.

"Having a bad day?" Cythandria asked, her tone sweetly venomous as she watched the terrified crowd of degenerates fleeing into the sewers, the acolytes tearing through them like scythes through wheat. She was not like them, the murder addicts, those who had joined Sarevok to stand in the shadow of a killer greater than themselves and bathe in the blood he shed, and she was _certainly_ not anyone who would follow him out of faith or personal loyalty. Cythandria was a parasite, seeking to tap into the power to be found here for her own use. She believed Sarevok would ascend to godhood, and when the new Lord of Murder blackened the heavens, she would be among his favored subjects.

She was also a filthy, conniving whore who used good looks and a general lack of dignity to ensnare men with promises of pleasure, making herself appealing in the bedchamber to offset her utter lack of use in any other capacity.

Not that Tamoko was jealous of her in any way.

"I do as milord commands, as do you," Tamoko said, trying to keep the wrath out of her tone. Sarevok did not take kindly to feuds among his lieutenants. He expected, and _demanded_ , all personal issues be set aside in favor of acting only in his interests. If you were to act in a way that brought profit to yourself, it must also bring profit to Sarevok. If you were going to destroy a foe, it must not be a foe that Sarevok found useful in any way. Cythandria was keenly aware that if she and Tamoko came to do battle, the one who struck the first blow would also be the one Sarevok tore limb from limb.

This was good for Cythandria, because Tamoko's first blow would also be Cythandria's last. But the mage apparently had little comprehension of how very, very quickly the priestess could wipe her from the face of the planet, and so provoking her rival into striking first had become a hobby of hers.

"True," the mage said cheerfully. "But I do it with a smile on my face, while you seem _oddly_ reluctant to obey milord's will. Are you losing faith, Tamoko? Questioning his path when he nears the end? I should _hate_ to see him think you a traitor, but the evidence is mounting."

"Because I do not enjoy random massacres, I am a traitor? The acolytes are doing their duty, killing for their lord. I have done my duty, leading them here. You are doing your duty, whatever that might be," Tamoko said flatly. Something ugly flashed behind the lovely mage's eyes at the implication she was a worthless hanger-on to the rest of the group, and Tamoko tried not to smile at it. "If you wish to paint me as a traitor, I suggest you do better than that. Sarevok dislikes having his time wasted by idiocy."

"Maybe you don't need to be a traitor, Tamoko," Cythandria said softly, and yet Tamoko could somehow hear her over the screams and the crackling of fire. "Maybe you just need to be weak. Maybe Sarevok just needs to see how _pathetic_ you are, how you don't have the _stomach_ for his vision. Maybe he'll see the same softness in your eyes that I do right now, and he'll just reach out and snuff your life out like a candle. Because he is a _god_ , and something like you is less than _nothing._ "

"Maybe," Tamoko said, her eyes leaving the petty mage to seek movement at the westernmost entrance, behind Gardush. The warrior was drawing back the string on his longbow and did not see the covering to the tunnel beyond move, "something is about to go off-prompt before we have an opportunity to worry about that."

"Wh…"

" _GO FOR THE EYES, BOO!"_ screamed a voice that Tamoko suspected would have sounded like a shout even if it was whispering. _"GO FOR THE EYEEEEEEEEES!"_

* * *

 

Slythe heard the crack of thunder and giggled. "Witnesses, witnesses. Someone's fighting baaaaack."

"You seem… happy, sir," one of the dopplegangers said softly, his voice muffled by the Shadow Thief mask he wore.

"Deliriously, good man! Two roasted Shadow Thief corpses at the scene of the crime will do our job just as well as anyone getting out alive, so we get to kill everyone after all," Slythe said gleefully. "No need to leave Entar's women alive to talk of things when a body tells a thousand words and all of them are 'Amn.' So after we do our job here, we can go back up the _hall,_ you see, find two scared little _rabbits_ and after we get them away from their protectors we just have to wrap our hands around their little throats and squeeze, and squeeze, and _squeeze._ Just like breaking their necks for a stew, hm? You boys must be _starving._ "

The doppleganger was named Kransizess, the eldest of the group that had joined the two assassins on this raid. He had, the day before, waylaid a member of the local thieves' guild in an alley and eaten him alive while he begged for mercy (well, gurgled; like any good hunter, Kransizess went for the throat first), just to acquire some proper clothing and equipment for this mission. Sentient beings were his literal food source, and he hunted and killed them with gusto. He still found Slythe's enthusiasm a _bit much_. Particularly since, against all odds, he was actually _worse_ without Kristin to distract him. The man was practically vibrating with the need to rush the room down the hallway where Entar hid and kill everyone inside, at which point he clearly _would_ go hunting for Entar's wife and daughter just to murder them for fun. It was like his only joys in life were his lover and bloody murder, and without one he focused every iota of his being on the other.

"Sir, the, uh… target?" Kransizess asked.

"Of course, of course. Krissy has probably already started her little fire, and we have to put business before pleasure," Slythe said. "Of course, my business _is_ my pleasure. You and the short one back there, he looks disposable. I want you to play a part for me. Tell me, when you were all researching the family, how closely were you paying attention?"

* * *

 

"Entar? Entar, darling?" a voice called from outside the room, and Viconia took a step back behind the dwarf and leveled her holy symbol at the door.

"Acherai?" she asked.

"Elle!" Entar snapped, nearly _lunging_ for the door, despite the fact Viconia had quite intentionally left him slightly too wounded to be moving around quickly. It wouldn't do to have him running off before he had fulfilled his part of the bargain. Besides, he was wealthy and powerful, after all, and if they needed a hostage for some reason he would do nicely.

One didn't survive terribly long in Menzoberranzen without considering how to plan for any possible scenario and set up a plan to profit in each and every one. And with three sisters (well, just one by the time she was finished), Viconia had more incentive to practice than many other drow females. She stepped between the old lord and the door, and slammed an elbow into where she knew his wound was still on the verge of opening. He fell hard, and did not rise again despite his tense muscles indicating he dearly wanted to.

"HA!" Shar-teel said, displaying her usual complex and subtle wit in regards to witnessing a man in pain. Viconia could understand the amusement factor, certainly, but still found she couldn't like the woman. She reminded Viconia far too much of home, more specifically of her most stupid and subsequently _dead_ sister. "If we decided to kill him, I call next shot. I don't like his face."

"I was not killing him, I was shutting him up," Viconia said flatly. "You, outside. You are this one's mistress?"

"His _wife,_ " a chilly, imperious tone said. "And daughter."

"Papa? Papa, are you okay? I heard you cry out…" said a younger, frankly rather pitiful voice that put Viconia in the instinctive mood to kick something.

"Skie!" Entar shouted back in an agonized voice, and Viconia had to fight off a very strong inclination to make him the target of said kick. Shar was not so gracious as to give her the power to raise the dead as of yet, and they did still need him alive for one way or the other. Making him bleed out was bad business. "That is my wife and daughter, you have to…"

"Please! Those men saved us, but we got separated and there's more behind us!" the pitiful voice continued. "Papa, let us in!"

"Silence, human," she snapped. "Mage. Can you divine the truth of their words?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, do I resemble a crystal ball to you?" Edwin sneered. "As if I carry spells to determine the identity of every maiden I run across. (And just stop there, letting them think I have run across a great many, of course. Shhhhh, they don't know.)"

"I do not know who you are or why you have my husband, but if you mean us well, you will _open this door_. Our lives are in danger," the older of the two women said, her tone icy and yet with just the right tinge of worry. Viconia considered this, and pondered her own personal beliefs on gender politics.

Most people on the surface, she knew, thought drow females hated all males. This was not true. They didn't respect males enough to hate them. All males were nothing to her but a potential source of amusement, whether it be in the form of a toe-curling orgasm, growth to her own power and wealth, or just the pretty patterns their blood made when it hit the floor. It was possible, if one was sufficiently amusing in one or more of these manners, to even feel a sort of mild attachment to them, as one might grow attached to a favorite pair of shoes. Pleasant to have around, but you wouldn't really care when they wore out and it was time to have the slaves burn them (by these standards, Acherai had turned out to be a pair of slippers that appeared awful on the outside but turned out to be surprisingly comfortable when worn; you wouldn't take them out in front of someone you respected, but they were fine for the bedroom).

What drow females _really_ hated was other females, and that was because they, unlike males, were intelligent and dangerous enough to be a _threat._ Nothing could set Viconia's nerves on edge like a woman acting helpless and endangered, because she knew from experience: when they _looked_ helpless was when they were about to bring the dagger down. She looked at the door with increased intensity, as if willing her eyes to look through it and see what trap awaited on the other side.

It was her ears, however, that gave her the answer, the crackling of flame just _barely_ audible to her elven senses. From _outside_.

"This is a distraction! Dwarf, kill them!" Viconia snarled, planting her foot firmly on Entar's back to stop the old man from interfering.

"Don't take orders from drow, ya…"

"They are keeping our attention on the door while another of their band burns our escape route, _wael dwen'del!_ " she hissed, shifting into drow to let the words 'idiot dwarf' have the venom to them she felt deep in her soul. "We've no options but to fight our way out, so _someone kill them!_ "

A gray-skinned hand, its fingers tipped in wicked claws, slammed through the wooden door, reptilian eyes peering through the hole with wicked glee dancing in them. "That _issss_ the idea, meat," the creature hissed, its voice still that of a young girl, but its tone nothing but taunting reptilian hunger.

The doppleganger pulled back from the newly formed hole in the door, and Viconia had _just_ enough time to see the smiling, dreadlocked man down the hallway before he released the crossbow bolt.

* * *

 

Naaman had never been a great assassin, because he did it for the joy more than the money. As a result, he took few high-paying jobs, for they were difficult. Complicated. He wanted the _kill_ , not a struggle for it. Challenge did not interest him, blood did. He would much rather kill a beggar in the streets every day for a copper apiece than be paid a thousand gold to spend a year meticulously plotting the death of a king. The _immediacy_ was what he needed. Death had been about quantity to him, not quality.

He had been a fool, and Sarevok had taught him much. Particularly the fact that if a man was willing to fight through that urge, be _patient_ against all instincts, than the quantity could be made to grow more than Naaman had ever dreamed. Patience and resources, a man who had these things could do anything. Such a man could kill _countries._

This burning pit had been like heaven to him. He slipped through the crowd like a wraith, reveling in the screams, each step moving him slightly closer to his god's greatest enemy, and she would never see him in this chaos. The flame and smoke were thick, the chaos of the mob that his group had taken care to cultivate ensuring she would not see him approach. They had killed dozens here, but far more had been left alive, herded by flame and arrow, wounded to stop others from fleeing. They rode the madness, and soon Naaman and Alai would be on the target, blades drawn…

And then, when Naaman was nearly in striking distance, someone _screamed_ like a rampaging dragon, something about _eyes_ , and when his gaze was torn to the entrance where Gardush had taken up aim with his longbow… just in time to see a bald giant with a hamster on his head run the man over like a minotaur stomping on a rat.

"What in Cyric's na-" he began, because there were some things even a hardened killer _has_ to stop and notice.

He didn't get to finish the oath, however, because something cold and bleak that buzzed like a wasp in his ear ran over him, and he could not so much as twitch an eyelid, much less speak.

This was for the best, he soon found, because it meant he felt almost no pain from the sword that slashed open the side of his neck.

"I would apologize for using such an unfair tactic as exploiting Xan's spell in a sneak attack, but you are a mass-murderer of helpless folk who had little enough life to give in the first place," Sephiria said, and the sheer _wrath_ in her voice convinced her that yes, this _was_ Sarevok's brethren. "And if it consoles you, the rest of your vile band will follow you soon."

He could not close his eyes, but his vision went dark regardless. All he could see in the shadows was a pair of glowing golden eyes that could not possibly be real.

With his last thoughts, he decided that at the hands of such a predator was not so bad a way for one like him to meet his end


	21. Chapter Twenty

The thing about Minsc, Dynaheir had always thought, was that he was not so chaotic as people believed him to be.

Oh, certainly, he wasn't a bastion of order. He went on about hamsters, he screamed all the time, and if he saw something that he defined as evil, he would be charging to smash it down with three hundred pounds of muscle and steel before she even realized he was moving. Traveling with him had been damnably complicated, even _before_ she'd gotten kidnapped by dog-men.

But the thing was, he was _predictably_ chaotic. Once you knew him well enough, you could work out pretty easily what he would do in any given situation, and how that situation would be changed by his addition, i.e. it would immediately become louder, more hectic, and if it was evil there would most likely soon be a lot of blood. So as soon as they had realized the horrid man they had come up behind in the tunnels was firing arrows into the crowd of the Undercellars, she hadn't even _tried_ to stop Minsc from doing what Minsc did. She had just begun reacting the way one had to when Minsc was being himself.

As Minsc charged, because Minsc _always_ charged, charging was his default behavior, she had begun by weaving a simple spell around him to protect him from arrows and other missile weapons. He was a large target and despite having the element of surprise, he was tended to spoil it by virtue of being extremely loud. So it was that when he screamed for his hamster to consume the eyes of his target (while she was aware that some hamsters did in fact have carnivorous tendencies, she was fairly sure Boo was not one of them based on the fact his general behavior in any given day was to eat his weight in seeds and then roll over), the archer at the door turned and loosed an arrow into his chest with the practiced skill of a trained killer. And that arrow, which might well have pierced Minsc's fine armor and harmed him, bounced off a wall of magenta light. And when Minsc was charging, you really only got one shot at stopping him.

As her bodyguard crushed the man against the tunnel wall and then introduced him violently to about thirty pounds of sharpened metal while he was still stunned, Dynaheir took the opportunity to study the scene and determine where he would be charging next. It was not easy; smoke and flame abounded, the throng of people and far too many corpses littered the area, and the killers moved about like shadows in the madness. She thought she saw a the light of a spell go off on the far side of the chamber, but had no way of knowing who had cast it or why. Minsc might have chosen to charge for it, though, he reacted well to lights and bright colors, so she made a note of the location, and... Oh, no, never mind, there was only one possibility. There, in the center of the large corridor, just barely visible through the smoke, were two ogres coming to investigate

" _EVIL, MEET MY SWORD! SWORD! MEET! EVIIIIIIIL!"_

Yes, there he went. Well, she was fairly certain he could defeat one ogre, given that he was already nearly the size of it and even had a similar level of baldness, but two was a bit much for even him. She sighed, and drew herself into another spell. She didn't want to start any more fires than were already burning, and she wasn't so good at stopping a foe with other means as Xan was. Still, she did have a few tricks.

She shifted one hand into her robes, drawing a small pinch of spider web and casting her will into it, murmuring a spell as she did. She threw the pinch of silk in a gentle underhand toss as the spell was completed… and it flew like an arrow toward the further ogre, the one that Minsc had not yet chosen to charge at while screaming. He would get to it eventually, of course.

And the massive web that burst into life with the ogre at its center ensured the beast would still be standing there when he did.

* * *

 

Viconia was a drow, and she survived. When she saw a crossbow leveled at her, she chose to survive at any cost, and preferably a cost paid by another. At this range, the bolt would go through her horribly crafted wooden surfacer shield, likely without so much as slowing. And so she dove, abandoning the fallen Silvershield and unconcerned with what may or may not have happened to her alleged party members if one of them happened to be behind her.

The bolt passed through the spot where her head had been half a second earlier, as she rolled and came smoothly to her feet with natural elven dexterity. Someone screamed like a young female child, which she assumed meant Edwin had been wounded, but she didn't have time to confirm it. Even before she rose to her feet, she was already casting a quick, single-syllable prayer to the Nightsinger, one to bolster her own armor for the inevitable…

Impact. The first of the shapeshifting beasts struck her, its claws digging into her chainmail with a slash that took her in the shoulder and sent her spinning back to the ground before she'd even had a chance to come fully to her feet. Were it not for her Armor of Faith, the beast likely would have buried its hand up to the wrist in her flesh; as it was, she felt chainmail links break and flesh bruise with an impact like being clubbed by a giant.

That had actually happened to her, once. Cousin Mortisal had decided that Viconia's mother might be amenable to adopting her into the main House succession if she was short one daughter, and had taken the almost charmingly simple tactic of pushing her elder cousin off the viewing platform into the slave pens while the merchants were offering a live surface ettin for purchase. It had been so ridiculously stupid that she hadn't even considered it a possibility, and as a result it had come _very_ close to working.

Fortunately, it had also taught her a lesson that most people never learned: sometimes the most dangerous enemy is not a brilliant schemer, but a violent, impatient, idiot.

Shar-Teel did not look like a killing machine, at first glance. She wasn't particularly tall, and her features, other than the tattoo over her eye, were almost _cute._ Unlike Viconia herself, or that ridiculous half-giant woman Sephiria, she was not immediately identifiable as the greatest threat in the room from a first glance. The two dopplegangers split their focus, one slamming a blow like a sledgehammer into Kagain's raised shield, and one seeking to pin Viconia to the floor and bite her throat out, ending the threat of the infamous drow before it could truly begin. And so they left themselves open to the worst possible thing to be with in close quarters like these: A violent, impatient, idiot.

Shar-teel was not a large woman, she did not _look_ like a danger. Her armor was bulky and poorly maintained, and her weapon was a simple, unadorned blade. Compared to a drow, a dwarf warrior, a Red Wizard (if he really was one, Viconia had her doubts) she was the bottom of the threat hierarchy. And so it was that the dopplegangers did not realize until she was literally between them, having not seemed to move at all, that they were in trouble.

That armor might have _looked_ bulky, but the material was actually mostly leather with some metal studs, and it didn't weigh her down at all. What it _did_ do was hide muscles like steel cords. And that sword might have looked plain and unadorned, but in a world of master smiths and great enchanted weapons, it was often overlooked that a blade didn't have to be fancy to be damn efficient at cutting things.

With the speed of a striking scorpion, and roughly the same level of empathy, Shar-teel spun her blade in a brutal arc from one side of her body to the other, the blade hissing as it sliced through the air faster than a flying arrow. The doppleganger battling Kagain was struck from the front, and had time to raise a clawed hand to partially deflect the stroke; it lost two fingers and leaped back, hissing in fury.

The one atop Viconia was struck from the back, and never saw it coming. And would never see anything coming ever again, because what _it_ lost was about half of its head.

In the hall outside, Slythe smiled at the sight, and dropped his crossbow. Reaching into the scabbard at his hip, he drew a blade that was not boring at _all;_ forged of black metal, the weapon was nearly invisible in the darkened hallway save for a pale, blood-red glow that faded in and out around it every few seconds. "Well, this looks like it might end up fun after all. Let's go, boys."

His two remaining doppleganger companions, still in the stolen forms of Shadow Thieves, drew blades of their own, eyes glittering with hunger at the smell of blood.

* * *

 

Sephiria pushed the dead assassin of her scavenged sword, and wondered if she should be regretting her life choices.

The chaotic mass of people had mostly dispersed or, if she had to be brutally honest with herself, mostly been massacred while she was helpless to prevent it, but that didn't make things easier to navigate. The fire was spreading; the tunnels might have been stone, but they were filled with flammable material and had enough open space and tunnels to draw in air to keep it burning. She could barely see for the smoke, and the ground was littered with debris, much of it searing to the touch. And she, for what felt like the millionth time her common sense had tried to bring this up and been shot down, didn't even have any _pants,_ much less armor. Gods above, she looked like someone who should be _working_ in the Undercellar, not someone who should be fighting for her life in it!

"Seffie! We have spellslingers," Imoen chirped in her ear. "Follow me, and try to stay low."

"GAH!"

"Sorry, didn't mean to surprise ya. I forgot you're a lumbering type," Imoen said. "Anywho, I been scouting, and it looks like their last up-close sort just got a, y'know, blood removal from you. Khally and Jarry are moving to the south entrance, there's a mage there who started the fires, and I figure we should hit north. Some guy chanting and shouting, but I think he's a priest. You love killing evil priests, right?"

"Lead the way," Sephiria said, fighting down the urge to yell at her sister for not treating this with the gravity it had earned, but now wasn't the time and honestly she had worked out some time ago that insufferable cheer was just how Imoen reacted to tragedy. The fact it was also how she reacted to everything else didn't lessen the fact she needed to cope somehow.

Besides, killing evil priests was almost literally her job, so Imoen had a point there.

The two girls, staying low as they progressed like wraiths through the calamity (or, well, Imoen did, practically _dancing_ through the debris and seeming almost like a part of the smoke herself. Sephiria tripped over a collapsed tent and fell face-first into embers, setting her hair briefly on fire before she was forced to literally rip a handful of it off her head), moved to what Imoen assured Sephiria was north. And over the crackle of fire, the moans of the dying, and the screams of Minsc apparently attempting to eat an ogre alive, she _could_ hear something. A chant that rolled over her, feeling more oppressive and toxic than any smoke in her lungs could hope to be.

Cyric, she heard his name in the prayers and it made her hair stand on end. She wondered, vaguely, if the priest calling out to the current Lord of Murder realized exactly what his master was planning? He had to know, so deep was he in Sarevok's cult, but he still prayed to Bhaal's killer? Perhaps Cyric didn't believe Sarevok could succeed, or he just didn't care so long as enough people died in the process. He was the god of madness too, after all. He didn't necessarily have to make sense.

And really, it didn't matter. What _did_ matter, as she burst through the smoke like an avenging deva, was that he'd be losing a priest soon.

She didn't know for certain he had started the fire, but his prayers had suffused the Undercellar; what might have been a mere riot had become a massacre due to the fear and chaos he and his allies had infused upon the crowd with their magic. He saw her burst from the flame, sword in her hand still bloodied and reflecting the gleam, and for a moment she got to see in his own eyes the fear he had inspired in others.

She strangled down the urge to find this satisfying, an urge she had come to realize would plague her the rest of her life. The black flame burning on his bared holy symbol and the blood smeared across his face like war paint made this harder than usual.

The man was tall, able to look her in the eye, and he wore a suit of chain and carried a mace in one hand. The weapon was pure black, not reflecting any light from the flames around him, and just looking at it made her feel cold. She was, in contrast, wearing rags and carrying a blade that was both not enchanted and she suspected was not the finest quality.

He still looked afraid. This was wise.

He raised his weapon to deflect her strike, and she struck against his guard with muscles that could comfortably lift nearly triple her own body weight. His enchanted mace held, and her sword snapped against its haft, but that hardly mattered; he might have been tall, but he was a slender man and his stance had been an attempt to stop her dead, rather than parry her weapon. Magic weapon or no, with a strike of that magnitude his slim arms had just taken roughly a thousand pounds of impact. The man screamed as his weapon flew from his numb hands in a spray of shards from her shattering blade; if she had still been using Tazok's enchanted weapon, the blow would have kept right on going through his guard to cleave his chest open.

As it was, it merely broke one of his wrists and left him fatally off-balance as her sister slid up behind him out of the smoke, so smoothly and flawlessly it was like she was shimmering into existence from thin air.

Sephiria knew as well as anyone that adventuring was a brutal career, and life on the road among the monsters killed innocence swiftly and surely. But the sight of Imoen sliding a dagger into a man's neck was nothing she had ever wanted to witness.

Sephiria felt slightly cold as she watched the man crumple to the floor. Candlekeep and the little girl who stole her desserts had never seemed so far away.

* * *

 

Tamoko looked over the battle, her spells lending clarity to her sight. "The druid and the warrior move to engage the last of the cultists. One of your ogres has fallen to that mad giant. I do not see the elf mage, which suggests to me that he is looking for us as we speak. Do you believe that your spells could turn this battle around?"

"Of course not!" Cythandria snapped. "They've killed almost all of Sarevok's Chosen, and you think I have a spellbook to deal with that?! He didn't tell us… he never said she was _like him._ I thought she supposed to be one of the weak, pitiful ones with none of Bhaal's true power to their name. But this…!"

"She is a killer by nature, and she has gathered a formidable force to herself," Tamoko said. "I saw what they did at the tower. Even Sarevok himself was struggling to stand against their combined powers. I had hoped that taking them by ambush while they were weakened would be sufficient to overwhelm them, but… this madness, the swirl of chaos and death, is where Bhaal's children thrive. She rides the wave of blood without fear and strikes without mercy. All we have accomplished here is to slaughter those who barely lived to begin with; she will not fall in battle to such as we."

"You might have said something to begin with! I'd have brought more tools to deal with her, or more likely _not have come,_ " Cythandria hissed. "We need to go. Leave the zealots to die, Sarevok can always find more. He'll want us to report to him…"

"Of our failure? He will kill you if you go back to him," Tamoko said flatly. "You haven't seen the rage he feels over the delays to his plan. He will kill anyone who angers him even slightly now. Even I would not be safe. I suggest you leave the city and never return."

The mage whirled on her, pretty face smudged by sweat and smoke, the gleam in her eyes having far more to do with hatred than firelight. "And leave you the only person at his side, just like you've always wanted? I think not, harlot. What you've never understood is that the power he offers is worth the risk. _Any_ risk. And besides, you're our _commander,_ aren't you? The blame for this falls on you more than me, and I-"

Without another word, Tamoko spun, and with a single smooth motion slammed her mace home against Cythandria's temple, sending the frail, young woman spinning to the ground with a sickening crunch. Tamoko was fairly certain the sound had been her skull shattering and the first blow had been fatal, but it was always best to be certain; she brought the weapon down on Cythandria's head three more times as she lay prone. By the third one, the mage's pretty face no longer resembled anything human, much less attractive.

Tamoko took a deep breath, fully aware she had just taken a step she could never go back from. Sarevok would not forgive this; he cared nothing for Cythandria, but she had been his creature and he would view her murder as stealing from him. He never forgot or forgave a trespass. "For what it is worth," she said to the body, "I did offer you the chance to flee."

Calling upon her gods, she chanted the words to a spell to purge illusions. The elf mage, gleaming sword in hand and an almost comical expression of shock on his face, stood less than twenty feet away. He had clearly been preparing to stab her in the back under a cloak of invisibility (which her upbringing informed her was dishonorable, but considering she had just murdered one of her own allies by ambush, she didn't feel she could judge), only to find his plans thrown off somewhat by one of his targets smashing the other's skull in.

She nodded at him, and threw her weapon to clatter to the floor at his feet. "I would speak to your leader. You may consider me your prisoner, please."

"I… that… what?" the elf said.

* * *

 

Coran turned a corner, Skie Silvershield following hot on his heels somewhat against his will. "I really wish I had paid more attention to the layout of your home on our way to find you," he admitted.

"You have really pretty ears. Are all elf ears so pretty?" she asked. "That other elf didn't have ears as pretty as yours."

"Not helping, dear. You could direct me, you know? Trying to find the guest room, remember? Lives at stake?"

"I told you, we have five of those!" Skie protested. "Do you want the north guest room, the west guest room, the northwest guest r-"

Coran sighed, turning another corner and finding what appeared to be the third closet of cleaning supplies this damnable place had. Honestly, who would _ever_ need to live in a house this large? Twisting hallways and at least twenty rooms that all looked alike; it would have been the bane of his existence if he'd had to sneak in for a dalliance with the owner's wife. And he probably would be doing that later!

And then he heard, faint but audible, the sound of something snarling followed by metal impacting metal, which was usually a pretty solid hint. Since starting to associate with this group, he had come to realize pretty quickly that if you heard someone trying to kill someone else, it was probably his 'allies.'

Maybe after this he should consider staying on with the Silvershields. They'd need new guards, the girls were prettier than Shar-teel, and there weren't any drow. But for now, it was time to get back to the awful people and make sure they weren't killed by people worse than them.

"All right, dear," Coran murmured, keeping his tone low enough to not carry as the sounds of battle grew louder. "We have the chance to ambush them here, so please do not…"

They turned the corner, and saw the battle in the guest chambers.

" _Daddy!"_ Skie screamed at the sight of her father, crumpled on the floor, before rushing headlong into the fray with only a dagger.

"… be yourself," Coran finished.

* * *

 

Edwin was quite displeased with the performance of this group.

For starters, it had women in in it and neither of them had noticed his stunning good looks, marking them as idiots. But more than that, he felt like the none of them, either the foolish wenches who didn't know what they were missing, nor the inbred barbarian dwarf, nor the prissy ridiculous forest elves, respected his contributions to the group.

(A more sensible person would note that he had not, in fact, _made_ any contributions to the group, and was in fact endeavoring to cast as few spells as humanly possible whilst in their company because they did not deserve the sweat of his noble brow. As a result, most people would have said he had no right to question why he was being unappreciated, because the reason was obvious. Most people weren't Edwin.)

And so, when the going got tough, with two of the shapeshifting monsters pressing the dwarf's defenses, the lead assassin matching the insufferable barbarian woman blow for blow, and quarters too closed for most spells anyway… Edwin chose to run away. In a dignified manner, of course. Not out of fear. Out of _disdain._

It wasn't like he could help, really, he reminded himself. This was such a messy, brutal, close quarters rout that magic was next to worthless. Fireballs and lightning bolts would just end up killing everyone, and summoning monsters in such a place? There was simply no _room._ And so when the lead assassin had pushed the barbarian wench back into the room, engaging her and the drow simultaneously with the sort of lethal skill that Edwin chose to never, ever allow himself to be nearby. So when the door appeared to be clear for even a few precious seconds, Edwin chose to take advantage of this.

Frankly, it was for the best. His extremely important mission from the second undersecretary to the aide of the aide of the Zulkir of Illusion's second-cousin (… silence, he was a _very important_ official in one small city about sixty miles southwest of the capital) was, after all, to assassinate a deadly Rashemi witch. He couldn't die here, lest he fail in his mission. He was _very brave_.

He made it about ten feet when he encountered a young woman running the other way, screaming and brandishing a knife. He prepared himself to surrender without regret and then summon up a spell to blast her in the back of the head when she stopped paying attention to him, because he was a strategic genius. He opened his mouth to fake sincerity.

She stabbed him in the chest and ran past him, still screaming. Something about her father.

 _I hate everyone,_ he thought mildly as he fell against the wall, pressing a hand against his gushing stab wound. It didn't hurt terribly, he just felt terribly cold and had no strength in his limbs. That was probably not a good sign, when he stopped to think about it.

"Sweet Sehanine, that woman is more dangerous to _us_ than she is to the people trying to kill her family," the second elf, the more flighty one, said as he knelt next to Edwin. "She may have nicked your heart. Hang on, I have potions."

"Haste would… be appreciated," Edwin said, which was the closest thing he could manage to saying 'thank you.'

"What spells have you that might help?" Coran asked, unstoppering his first potion. "I assume you were getting some distance to attempt weakening the foe, or filling them with confusion and fear?"

"… Yes, that is what I was planning."

"Good man! I can get to like you."

"(As if your approval is anything to me other than the buzzing of an insect, forcing me to waste my sorcerous might in defense of fools and barbarians.)"

"What?"

"Nothing! Another potion, please," Edwin said, wondering if he had any spells that actually _would_ help without, for instance, killing the entire party and inspiring an irritating elf to stab him in the back. He tended to prefer grand, elaborate balls of flame and destruction that properly showed off the power of Edwin… er, the power of Thay. That wasn't ideal for fighting the foe in a room the size of a cigar box and surrounded by people he would be executed for killing...

Huh.

He reached into the pockets of his robes, and withdrew a handful of scrolls that he had discretely stolen from the libraries of the mine overseer, Davaeorn. He had been, of course, meaning to keep them for himself, but hadn't at the moment the skill to cast them from his spellbook… erm, that was to say, he had not had _time to copy them,_ yes. And they were… _interesting._ A bit outside his usual specialization, but they could be worked with.

And, well, if they killed everyone, at least he could claim it was by _accident._

* * *

 

Kristin giggled at the sight of the burning tree. It would normally not amuse her in the slightest to kill something that couldn't scream, but in this case, it was worth it. If there was one thing she liked more than killing (and there honestly _was_ only one thing) it was seeing her Slythe happy as a clam, and nothing made him happier than getting to drive a sword through some poor defenseless thing's eye. "Trapped, trapped, trapped like rats," she said in a sing-song voice. "Poor little Entar, his home is his tomb. My baby is gonna be sooooooo sweet on me for this…"

"You know," whispered a voice in her ear. "A spell of invisibility only helps so much when you're too psychotic to stop from talking to yourself."

She spun with the speed of a striking snake, her dagger slashing through the night sky. All this amazing display of killer instinct and reflex accomplished was to ensure the elf's own blade entered her side, rather the small of her back.

Kristin wasn't a fighter like her husband, she was just a killer. She didn't derive the same joy he did from a victim that fought back; she attacked from ambush, always, and fled long before any survivors could attempt to strike back at her. As a result, all of her gear and spells were designed to kill as quickly and hopefully painfully as she could manage. She wore no armor, nor even any magical equipment that might have stopped a steel blade going through her thin clothing.

She felt the cold fire pierce her unarmored side, and she knew from inflicting more than one such wound herself that her liver had been struck. The elf wasn't an expert, though. He could have put his dagger into her spine and paralyzed her, but he had spoken, warned her, tried to be _dramatic_. She was probably going to die from this wound, but not immediately. She could still _move,_ and if she could move, she could _kill._

Fighting through the weakness in her limbs, letting the pain _infuriate_ her, she lashed out like a wild animal, ripping her dagger across Acherai's face. And that was her second, and final, mistake.

The elf hadn't held on to his dagger. He had stabbed her and jumped back immediately, leaving the weapon in her side while he got distance, and that was when she understood he hadn't been being _dramatic._ He hadn't been totally certain where she was, and he had been luring her into making an offensive action that would dispel her invisibility. And now it was well and truly purged, and he was already twenty feet away from her, fast as a damn snake while the rest of the world seemed to slow down around her…

And he was holding a wand.

He smiled, and spoke the activation word, and the chill in her limbs was burned away by lightning roaring through her body. The last thing she saw before it all went black was something glowing, poisonous and gold, behind his eyes, and she had to admit it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen since the only time she had gotten to witness Sarevok taking a life with his own hands. It had been like an apprentice sculptor watching a master at work as he produced the finest work of his career.

She'd told Slythe afterwards that she'd have offered herself to him freely at that moment, with the blood coating his arms and the golden fire behind his demonic eyes, and she wouldn't have cared if he'd rutted her or murdered her, just so long as he'd touched her with his hands still warm and dripping. Her husband had grinned and admitted he would have done the same thing. They'd made love that night, ferociously, the cooling corpse of the innkeeper still in their room after they killed him just for the sheer joy of the act.

Kristin smiled as she died, content with a satisfying life.

* * *

 

Kagain wasn't happy, because he was never happy unless he was drinking a flagon to celebrate a vast sum of gold falling into his possession. But now he was not happy because he somewhat suspected he was going to die.

The man, just a damn human sellsword as far as he could tell, not even a monster like the others, had turned out to be possibly the most skilled fighter he'd faced in twenty years of mercenary work. He was armored in leather only, and carried no shield, but it didn't matter because Kagain couldn't _hit_ him. He moved like a wasp, just barely outside the edge of every attack aimed his way, until he saw even the smallest of openings… at which point he stung, his blade slipping between armor plates to pierce veins with precision that Kagain would have called impossible if he didn't have the bleeding wounds to prove it had happened. As much as he hated to admit it, the drow's prayers were the only thing that had kept him from bleeding out after the bastard had gotten one absurdly perfect stroke at his throat, slipping that damn blade in the millimeter between his shield and the neck of his armor.

A dwarf warrior, and the only reason he was still alive was that he was being constantly bolstered by a dark elf's prayers to a human goddess. If he'd been one of those fanatical Clangeddin-loving types, he'd have died on the spot of shame. As it was, he was just annoyed that he seemed poised to die anyway, with the bitchy one now fending off three shapeshifters and the mage having made a run for it.

And then things went a little weird, which was Kagain's proof that he'd grown from this whole sorry adventure. Because a year ago, he would have found this _extremely disturbing,_ but at this point it was basically business as usual.

First, a human woman, he'd have pegged her as young but it was hard to be sure because they all looked the same, scrawny beardless things, ran into the room screaming and waving a knife. This caused basically everyone to immediately turn to her, because it was the sort of thing where if a battle was going on, you had to assume she was here to join the other side or risk getting stabbed in the back. In this particular case, it wasn't entirely clear _who_ she was trying to help, but Kagain could live with that, because who she _did_ help was whoever was losing, which was them.

And this was because, just before she attempted to stab Slythe and was consequently murdered by a ruthlessly efficient, lightning-fast counter, she tripped over her own feet and slid under his strike, the blade skipping off the top of her scalp instead of slashing her throat open. She shrieked and tumbled, most likely knocked out of the fight immediately despite not dying… and turning her into a hundred-pound missile aimed directly at Slythe's legs. The man, as always, dodged flawlessly and with inhuman speed.

Which sad for him, left him off-balance enough for Kagain to slam the edge of his shield into the man's kidney from behind. He would have preferred the hammer, but his shield arm was closer and lighter, and he knew that even a half-second delay might let the bastard dance away again. Not having any of that.

The human gasped in pain as something snapped in his torso, biting back a scream. To his credit, he didn't fall, and even spun on Kagain to strike at the dwarf's head with that wicked blade. But the strike was slower, lacking the fluid grace of his normal blows, and Kagain ducked beneath it, bending at the knees… and then using that posture to lunge. Head-first.

Kagain wasn't a battlerager by any stretch of the imagination, and honestly had no respect for anyone so kill-crazy. But he had seen one or two fight in his day, and he couldn't deny they did some good work. For example, it wasn't until a dwarf saw one of his kin headbutt an orc until its head split open that he realized how very _hard_ his own skull actually was. Particularly wrapped in a helmet.

With horns on it.

The man's leather armor was clearly enchanted, because even propelled by Kagain's impressive leg muscles, the metal spikes didn't pierce it. But he was still being hit in the stomach by three-hundred pounds of dwarf condensed into two points the size of arrowheads. For the second time in as many minutes, something made a sickening crack within his body, and Kagain smiled. Humans were fragile, they could only afford to have so many things break in there. The man leaped back with the impact, blood leaking from the side of his mouth, and one hand wrapped protectively around his midsection. Kagain saw the hate in his dark eyes, and it brought a glimmer of warmth to his greedy heart.

Even better, the shapeshifters were starting to lose their nerve as well; they still surrounded Shar-teel, but she was not so pressed as before. Their attention was divided between her and their failing master, and she wasn't the sort of woman who one could afford to be distracted from. One of them was already missing an eye, and a second had enough grey ichor flowing down his body that Kagain had to assume only adrenaline (or whatever they used) was keeping the bastard upright.

"Drow. Throw yer prayers to the wench, I got this one," he said gleefully, raising his shield and hammer before him in a marching guard stance…

And Slythe, his eyes glimmering with madness, unwrapped his arm from around his torso to reveal a potion in a fire-red bottle that seemed to gleam within, a pale yellow light filtering through the glass. Kagain's eyes widened, because there was _no_ good coming of something that so clearly wanted to explode in quarters as close as these…

And then Edwin 'helped.'

* * *

 

Acherai entered the manor again, wondering vaguely if this was the wrong choice. He heard the screams the first floor, and while none of them _sounded_ like his team, because none of them sounded even remotely human, he had to wonder what was going on.

The monsters were dopplegangers; he hadn't ever seen one before, but he'd read of them in books more than once. They were certainly more dangerous than an unarmed human being, but their true danger was in their ability to shift their form and copy the memory of their prey. Trained warriors like Kagain and Shar-teel, in a defensible position with mage and cleric support, should have been able to handle the few that an assassination squad would have available. He had even sent Coran back to help while he went outside to scout out their planned escape route.

Skie had gone too, and that probably had made things worse, but at least if she was gazing goggle-eyed at Coran, she wasn't smashing wooden objects into Acherai's face.

In any event, he had gone outside to find their planned escape route on fire, and gone back _inside_ to find something releasing inhuman screams that, upon further inspection, actually sounded more _furious_ than in pain.

_One of them did something. Viconia would focus on keeping herself alive, her spells tend to be low key. So… Edwin. I haven't had much chance to check his spell repertoire, given his intense desire to be of no use whatsoever. I have no idea what he can even-_

He turned the corner, to see three dopplegangers, two of them missing at least part of their arms, and all of them foaming at the mouth and ripping at their own flesh, smash through the _wall_ and come running directly at him, though they clearly didn't actually _see_ him; he dove for cover through an empty door, and one of the dopplegangers ran right past it, howling madly at nothing in particular. The second tried to follow suit, but did not make it as far… because the third, behind it, leaped on its back and, in a blind rage sunk its jagged fangs into the back of its own partner's neck. As Acherai watched through the open door, the creature tore a fist-sized chunk of flesh and bone from its fellow and spat it against the wall. The fallen doppleganger did not even attempt to struggle, just flopped bonelessly on the ground while its killer rose and let out a mindless howl, turning to smash its fists into the nearest wall; fighting some vision only it could see, or simply so maddened it needed to smash anything and everything, Acherai couldn't have said.

… _... Huh. I guess he actually is a wizard after all. I confess, I was starting to wonder if he was faking it,_ Acherai thought numbly. He took a step backwards and pushed the door as closed as it could get with a corpse in the way, while the monster raged outside, tearing chunks out of the plaster and screaming mindlessly.

He could afford a break, after all. The team _seemed_ to be doing all right.

* * *

 

The Undercellar was gone, for all intents and purposes. The place had been a pit long before it burned, and the people within it had been the scum of the world, depraved and sinful; they had spent their nights in this hole, losing their minds to chemicals and sating their lusts on women and men so desperate to survive that they sold themselves, because it was the only thing they had.

Sephiria still felt deep in her soul that they hadn't deserved what had been done to them. If a place could be said to be a Hell on Toril, that place had been it.

"Khalid. Jaheira," she said hoarsely, her throat burning from the smoke and the dry, burning air. "Did…"

"If any of the enemy survived, they are running for their lives. The engagement is done. We should move," Jaheira said flatly. "Go with Khalid, flee through the sewers. Try to get out of the city, I will find the others and follow you."

"That isn't what I was going to ask," Sephiria growled. "The people. Did anyone at all…"

Jaheira sighed. "I do not know, child. Sarevok's acolytes were using the crowd to spread chaos, and between them and the fire… I believe Scar was trying to save who he could, but in that madness, I do not even know if he survived, much less if he managed to organize any sort of evacuation. I'm sorry."

Sephiria clenched her hands into fists, the handle of her borrowed sword cracking under the pressure. "Damn them. Damn _him!_ How could he… why would he do a thing like this?! Me, I could understand, but all of these people! They were _helpless,_ no threat to anyone, there was no _purpose_ to it, no…"

"There does not have to be a purpose beyond death, with him. Not anymore."

She spun, blade raised, to see an armored woman of darkened skin and unusual features; a Kara-turan, she thought, a few had made the journey to Candlekeep over the years she had lived there, despite the distance from their lands. She wore full plate, a suit of beautiful make, but her weapon was strapped to her back and Xan stood behind her, a wand raised and pointed at the back of her head. She smiled slightly.

"I understand your first instinct is most likely to kill me. It is a part of who you are," she said. "However, I have surrendered to your ally and seek to do you no harm. I wish only to parley, Child of Bhaal."

Sephiria's eyes narrowed, something dark and burning roaring up in her heart. "If you know who I am, that means you belong to Sarevok. You came here with the others. Tell me why I should not _tear you apart_ for what you… _monsters_ did here?!"

Tamoko smiled sadly. "What Sarevok has done is crime against man and gods alike, and I have aided him willingly time and again. I deserve death, and I do not doubt my soul is forfeit to whatever devil cares to claim it when I find it. I am not the first person to damn themselves for love, I'm sure."

"You are not helping your case," Jaheira said, stepping forward to stand next to Sephiria. "And we need to make haste. Explain why we should not kill you and have done with it?"

Xan coughed. "She _did_ kill one of her own allies, and surrendered to me…"

"So she is a traitor as well as a murderer?" Jaheira asked.

"I am loyal to Sarevok. _Not_ to Bhaal Reborn," the woman said calmly. "I act in his best interests, and I feel he no longer knows what they are. I want to save him from himself, before the monster he has become consumes him to the point even his soul burns away in Bhaal's flame and all that remains is Death Incarnate. Do you understand me, godchild?" she locked eyes with Sephiria, and the young paladin felt the fury inside her flicker at the sensation. It was… uncomfortably like the woman was gazing into her mind and what she saw there pleased her in some way. "I have some knowledge of your condition. I know the impulses you feel. The fact you control them, even if not fully… it speaks greatly of you. All I ask is that you help another soul with your curse do the same, if you can."

"You see why I brought her. She has a lot of interesting things to say," Xan said dryly. "Besides, lady druid, I have to point out that Greycloaks do not traditionally execute unarmed prisoners without a trial. And to be perfectly blunt, given how _absolutely outmatched_ we are by the resources of our enemy—which might I remind you include the city's entire army?—we could use any allies we could gather, however distasteful you find them. That we might live another few days, at the least. Perhaps even weeks!"

"Your friend is not wrong," Tamoko said softly, but her gaze never left Sephiria's and behind her gray orbs was nothing but iron, as cold and determined as her tone was gentle. "Particularly not when I can tell you, right now, what Sarevok plans to do and where he plans to do it. In return, I ask your oath of assistance.

"Do we have a bargain?"

And Sephiria, feeling very much like she was reaching out to a Devil, even as the Hells burned just down the sewer corridor… nodded once, sharply, and turned to walk away in the direction Jaheira had indicated without another word.

The path ahead looked very dark, but at least she was still moving forward. That would have to do for now.


	22. Chapter Twenty-one

Edwin had helped, and that was why everything was so much worse.

Now, Kagain could admit that things had not been ideal. The assassin had clearly been about to throw down a potion of some sort, clearly designed to make a big damn mess. The 'taking you with me' mentality that Kagain hated more than anything; what was the bloody point of taking someone with you? It meant _you were going too_. If Kagain was going to have an emergency potion for when things looked unsalvageable and he had to abandon the group (not that he did… that anyone knew of), it would be something for invisibility or wraithform. Something to get out alive. That's what _mattered_.

But then, before the man could drop his bottle and ruin everyone's day, the wave of Edwin's spell of Chaos rolled over the room, and it just ruined _Kagain's_ day.

The dopplegangers took it worst; one of them just started _screaming_ and ran toward the wall to start clawing at it like he was being pursued by a demon, while the most wounded of the two remaining suddenly whirled on one of his own allies and clamped down those wicked fangs on the other creature's shoulder. The creature being actively _chewed on_ did not even react for several long seconds, just staring into space… before suddenly screaming, throwing off its attacker, and whirling to shoulder-tackle the weak spots in the wall where the first one had been tearing at it. In a burst of wood and plaster dust, it fell through, pursued by its own blood-drenched companions, all three foaming at the mouth in madness.

"What the Hells…?" Shar-teel asked in something akin to horror. "Did we-"

She was cut off, then, by Slythe, who also clearly had not reacted well to whatever magic flooded the room, sliding his blade between her third and fourth ribs.

In her defense, it wasn't like she had stopped paying attention to the situation. Kagain was between her and the assassin, that should have been enough. Nobody could get past a defending dwarf without losing a limb at the very least. And true to form, he had suffered a terribly broken arm as the dwarf slammed that brutal hammer home without hesitation. He just also clearly wasn't feeling any pain to speak of; his arm was bent backwards at the elbow and coated with electrical burns from the hammer's lightning enchantment, and yet the only thing in the assassin's eyes was a deep, haunting rage at something only he could see. Shar-teel suspected that the only reason she was still alive was that he didn't even know she was _here;_ he was fighting something entirely unreal that just happened to be standing in roughly the same place she was.

The numbness flooding her body made it hard to appreciate this, as she felt each breath become agony with disturbing suddenness. _Pierced a lung. Shit,_ she thought with rising panic. It wasn't the worst hit she'd ever taken (running with her last party, the Scarlet Furies, she'd actually _died_ and had to be raised, not an experience she ever hoped to repeat) but there was only so much you could do with no air in your body. She snarled as best she could for what little intimidation it would bring, grabbing onto the man's hand to hold him still and trying to meet him stab for stab, but there was no power in the motions anymore. Her weapon skidded off his enchanted leathers without penetrating… and even if she had, the madness in his eyes told her he wouldn't have felt it.

He didn't even bother to take his sword back, just body-checked her into the wall and grabbed one of her own dropped blades, raising it high while staring at something slightly above her head. She heard her remaining sword fall from fingers too numb to notice its absence, and hissed in agony at the waves of pain rolling off the blade still dug into her body, the dwarf was lunging, but he was too slow, _everything_ was too slow…

And a dagger erupted from the assassin's mouth as someone stabbed him in the back of the head.

Acherai, the invisibility spell cloaking him fading with the offensive motion, took hold of the suddenly limp man and slit his throat with practiced ease, something gold gleaming in his eyes as he smiled at the falling corpse. "You must be 'Slythey-baby.' Your lover says 'hello'," he said cheerfully, as the assassin twitched at his feet. "Don't worry, your employer is next. Now, Viconia darling, if you could patch up our new employer… _and he will be paying us handsomely for this…_ and our dear friend here? In that order. Nothing personal, Shar-teel, but you're much more expendable than Sir Silvershield."

Shar-teel shuddered. Not from the closeness of death, she'd had worse brushes. And not from the kill itself, she'd seen worse. In honesty, she didn't know _why_ she felt a sudden burst of instinctive revulsion. Something in the way he carried himself, the way the blood was dripping, something about his _smile…_ it just set her on edge, and she couldn't explain why. In the end, she chalked it down to adrenaline, maybe some side-effect of that moron wizard's magic (and she was going to have his guts for garters, he could damn well be sure of that!).

In truth, though she wouldn't realize this for some time, it was more akin to the same primal predatory instinct that ensured a lone wolf would always back down when it finds a full-grown grizzly and realizes it is simply _not_ in the same class.

* * *

Sephiria sighed as the group sat along the edges of the river encircling the city, after a trek through the sewers that was far, far too long for anyone's liking. Tamoko sat under a tree, further from the rest of the group as they washed away the grime; they had nothing to bind her hands, but Khalid had the woman's mace tied to his belt, Jaheira had her holy symbol in a pouch, and Scar held a captured dagger to the back of her neck, so she was as secure as she could be made. Nobody particularly wanted to talk to her.

Sephiria sighed again. _Well, since I seem to have been elected leader against my will, I suppose the darker duties fall to me then._

"All right. Tamoko. Tell us everything you know."

"Can we wash off n' find you some pants, first?" Imoen asked.

"Imoen, we…"

"Smell like someone chewed us up and swallowed us an' we came out the wrong end," Imoen said flatly. "And frankly, our supposed leader running around all naked isn't doing wonders for morale."

Sephiria blushed as red as her hair, shifting to move the half-shredded prison rags and bandages into something resembling modesty. "I'm not… naked. I just broke out of prison, these rags don't really fit, and the only people I've had time to see who might have had clothes to borrow were prostitutes."

"And it's not bad for morale at all," Scar said.

"Hey! Hey! Do _not_ perv on my sister, you have been absolutely no use to anyone so far!" Imoen snapped, whirling on him. "You wanna stare at Seffie's butt, you gotta earn it like everyone else. There's villages around here, right? Go find her some real godsdamn clothes, and maybe even some armor so she doesn't die of getting scratched, while the real heroes get things _done_ around here."

"'You gotta earn it'?" Sephiria growled as Scar sauntered off, laughing under his breath. "Imoen, that sounds suspiciously like you make people do you favors in exchange for getting to ogle me."

"… Well, in my defense, you never noticed, not once since you turned sixteen, that your bedchambers at Candlekeep had a hole in the south wall near the ceiling that let people look in from the next room over if they climb onto a chair. What was I supposed to do, _not_ rent that out to visitors? They pay in cookies!"

" _You little—_ "

"Girls. While I understand the desire to maim Imoen, we have more pressing matters to attend to," Jaheira said. "Everyone. We've not time for real bathing, but clean up as best you can while our local ally finds us a nearby place to hide and, well, dress our escaped convict in something less conspicuous. Then, yes, we talk to the woman we probably should have left dead in the sewers."

"After we defeat Sarevok, I am going to _pummel_ you," Sephiria muttered to Imoen as she scooped up some water to wash the muck from her feet. "You will need to eat your ill-gotten cookies through the hole where your head used to be after I hit it so hard it explodes."

"Not if you can't catch me, ya galumphing moose," Imoen said cheerfully, sticking her tongue out.

Xan watched this with fascination, before turning to Dynaheir and saying, "I'm an only child. I don't usually get 'happy' about things, but right now, I think I might classify that as an actual blessing."

Dynaheir just sighed. "Honestly, after a year of traveling with Minsc, this all seems terribly normal to me."

"Gods above, you poor thing."

Far from them, Tamoko sat cross-legged with her eyes closed, and grinned slightly. This was not at all what she had expected, but she couldn't deny it gave her some hope.

* * *

 

The Silvershield estate had been decimated.

Oh, the word wasn't technically accurate, but Acherai liked the sound of it. 'Decimated.' It really just meant one-tenth had been destroyed, but it _sounded_ so terrifically final, to the point that the actual meaning hardly mattered anymore. If you told someone their forces had been _decimated,_ they would know they had been utterly, terribly crushed. A person whose holdings have been _decimated_ knows his situation is desperate. He has to take any faint hope he can latch on to. Any alliance that presents itself, he must commit to, because he has no other choice. He is doomed without help. That wasn't what decimated meant in the dictionary, perhaps, but it's what it meant to _people._ And if there was one thing Acherai had always loved about people, it was that what they _thought_ was always more important than the truth.

"Your estate, Lord Silvershield," Acherai said to Entar as he laid back in a bed in the Blade and Stars inn, his wounds only just barely closed and a grim, haunted look in his eyes, "was, unfortunately, completely decimated."

The party had gotten the room in secret and moved the Duke and his family in through the window under cover of night. It wasn't hard; there was nobody else to _bring._ The wife, the daughter, and a pair of servants who had been hiding in the wine cellars for a romantic rendezvous; there were no other survivors.

"Coran and I completed our scouting run while you sleeping off your injuries, and it was as complete a job as I can imagine. Your household guards were dead in their quarters, it seems someone in your kitchen staff poisoned their dinner. I assume he or she also let the assassins into the house and told them where to go to prevent you from escaping by carriage; we will never know for sure because the entire serving staff was killed save for those two," he continued, gesturing towards the young maid and the scullery boy, huddled and pale in the corner. They were too scarred by the night's events to even stare in terror at Viconia, which took some _work_ considering she wasn't even bothering to put her hood up in the safety of the room _._

The duke shuddered, looking much older than he had a few hours earlier. "All of them?"

"Matched the bodies to your employment records. Some of them were in… poor condition, but there were enough corpses to account for everyone, I'm afraid. Two exceptions, obviously. And I'm going to assume that if they were involved, they'd have been wearing pants when we found them."

"W-we really are planning to get married, sirs! Just money's been tight, sirs, and-" the girl squealed suddenly, the first words she'd spoken since they'd found her.

"Absolutely nobody cares… Marise, correct? From the cleaning staff?" Entar asked.

"Y-yes, milord! And my beau is Delmod from the stables, sir, and we really weren't shirkin' our duties, sir, on account of me being on a break and him bein' told to go home early fer the day with all the fuss about milord's daughter, and well… Amy cracked that wine bottle earlier while dustin' the cellars, so's I knew it wouldn't last, and I thought 'twould be fine if we should drink it as a bit of romance, sir, and…"

" _Nobody. Cares_. Have you any notions of whom might have let those killers into my home, girl? Either of you. Was anyone acting oddly? Nervous? Ill? Spending time in parts of the house they shouldn't have been?" Entar asked. "I have faced attempts on my life before. But none so determined, and none so very nearly successful. Their employers must be found and _obliterated._ Immediately."

"I was under the impression we already knew who it was, sir?" Acherai said. "Would it not be a simple matter to locate them? They are something of a public figure."

"This is not some back-alley knifing, boy! We must have evidence and it must be _indisputable._ If we move without proof, it's our heads that will roll," Entar snapped. "Talk, girl. You knew the other servants. Did. You see. _Anything?_ "

"W-well…" she said slowly. "I mean, aside from that scatterfingers Amy crackin' _another_ wine bottle, and one of your lordship's _finest_ it was, I…"

"I, um… I may have, sir," Delmod said. "I, um, I can't say for certain, an' I don't want to… to imply any…"

" _Speak faster, surface worm,_ " Viconia hissed.

" _The assistant chef, sir, he often went to play dice down on the docks with some disreputable fellows and you said the dinner was poisoned sir! He worked in the kitchen sir and he did not at all keep polite company sir and could have done the poisoning and I thought I saw him walking to the back entrance when I sneaking to the cellars to meet Marise, sir! Please don't let the drow steal my soul, sir!"_ Delmod the surface worm screeched.

"The assistant chef… he was a recent hire. Only a few months. Immigrant to the city, from…" he paused mid-thought, eyes widening. "Ah. Damn."

"Amn?" Acherai asked, though it wasn't really a question. The nobleman's utterly defeated tone said everything.

"Nashkel, specifically. Our nearest neighbor," Entar said bitterly. "I'm sure he was on their payroll from the start, long before we ever hired him. Meant to die in the attack and leave a convenient Amnish corpse to add weight to the false Shadow Thief calling cards they'd scatter about. But that's not what the people would see. Go around the streets, and suddenly every Amnish citizen is going to be painted as a crazed killer just waiting to let the assassins into your homes and businesses. That kind of outcry is not something most leaders can fight down. Sarevok would have his war before the month was out."

"So what we need, then, is proof linking this man to the Iron Throne's payroll. Some sign the money came from them, and not from the Shadow Thieves," Acherai said thoughtfully. "We have part one, the papers the assassins carried. Nothing concrete in any of them, but the man had an invitation to the coronation of Grand Duke Sarevok. Since that coronation has not been _announced_ yet, we can assume it's His Future Majesty planning ahead. He can also claim it is a forgery if pressed and we won't have a leg to stand on, but it's enough to make people _wonder._ We just need , talk to the children here, and find out what room belonged to the mole in the estate staff. Go back to the manor before the Fist arrive and search his chambers thoroughly for any papers or coin that confirm our theory, or even that give it a slight push. Contrary to our lord's belief, we don't really need incontrovertible evidence, just enough to look suspicious. The law doesn't matter if you get enough of the people angry in the right direction."

Entar chuckled bitterly. "You think like Sarevok."

"No, I think _better_ than Sarevok, because I haven't got one-tenth his resources but I'm still going to _break_ him," Acherai said. "If there is one thing that people hate more than someone different from them, it is someone who has _tricked_ them. The masses might have an instinctive loathing of everyone from every other country, but that pales in comparison to the white-hot hatred they feel for someone who thinks he is smarter than they are and doesn't do a good enough job hiding it. We make this city think he was playing them for saps, and they'll eat him alive."

Kagain snorted. "Or we could kill him. It would be quicker."

Acherai grinned, something flashing behind his eyes that nobody could be quite sure they saw. "It would also fail. He's strong among us right now. In blood and blades and metal, that's where he is at home. You don't kill a man like that with a frontal assault. When your target is stronger than you, you avoid his gaze. Wear him down from the shadows until the moment comes to slip up behind him and put the knife in his heart."

Viconia grinned like a contented cat. "I sense a plan."

"We will, of course, be going to his tower. But not right away. While Coran goes to the Silvershield estate, the rest of us need to find a Flaming Fist patrol," Acherai said, running a finger along her jawline and enjoying the fact the grand seductress shuddered slightly at the touch. Oh, manipulation was still most definitely her goal, but the attraction was also real, despite the instinctive revulsion between their races. Power, confidence, and determination truly were the best aphrodisiacs. "I don't know how they do it in Menzobarranzen, my dear, but in our world, tyrants are traditionally best laid low by poison. I have a wonderful one in mind."

In the corner, Edwin muttered, "(Ah, wonderful, the hormonal teenagers are starting again. And now our fearless leader has randomly decided Sarevok does not employ a food taster. I swear, this group will be the death of-)"

The dagger slammed home into the wall just beside his ear, he very suddenly found Acherai an inch from his face, smiling in a very unsettling manner. "Edwin, my friend. There is more than one type of poison, and not all of them can be tasted.

" _Trust_ me."

* * *

 

The tunic was a size too small and the trousers were clearly meant for a man, neither of which made Sephiria terribly happy, but at least she was properly covered up and if needed could chase Imoen and punch her in the face, over and over. _And I will. Oh yes, I will. Torm is a just god and he will lend me the strength._

"What I tell you know will mark me for death in Sarevok's eyes, beyond anything else I have done. I will forevermore be seen as nothing but a traitor, an impediment in his path to glory, and what love he still feels for me will die as surely as a limb severed from a body," Tamoko said. "And yet I tell you, because it is the only possible way I can see to spare his life and save his soul. This should tell you the depths of my feelings for your brother. We have been lovers since we were teenagers, since I was a frightened exile who could barely hear the whispers of my gods. For my entire adult life, he has been the only man who has ever treated me as an equal. As valued. I would die for Sarevok."

"So why are you not by his side now?" Jaheira asked. "He seems to be on the rise of late. A Grand Duke's wife is rarely called on to sacrifice herself in any capacity, unless you count having to attend state dinners."

"I would die for _Sarevok._ Not the monster behind his eyes," she said flatly. "He has always been a hard man. A ruthless one, even. The Iron Throne is truly little more than a gang of thugs, and being raised in their number would taint any child's morals. But of late… his crimes always had a _goal_. His actions were certain, strong, and even the most heinous would be of benefit to him. He sought godhood with the dedicated passion of one who has the potential to successfully _claim it._ Now… he lashes out madly, like a wounded animal. Death for its own sake has become his first concern. He still believes himself Bhaal's chosen heir, but the more he draws on that power, the more wild and self-destructive he becomes. I am not a scholar of western gods, but I have made a study of Bhaal for obvious reasons. Nothing I have found of his history tells me he would _ever_ wish for an heir. More likely…"

"He wishes a rebirth," Sephiria finished. "That makes sense. The voices… they push you to kill, to destroy everything in your path, yes, but special mention is made of your siblings. What a threat they are. How their similarity to you makes them the greatest danger of all. Whatever plans Bhaal had for his children, we are clearly meant to view each other as targets and destroy each other whenever we can. I was uncertain why, but it makes perfect sense if you look at it from that perspective. We are to burn as fuel for the god's eventual return."

"I do not want to see Sarevok destroyed," Tamoko said gently. "I do not want you to kill him. But the more I learned, the more I saw of his mind warping under that monster's influence, the more obvious it became that his plans to claim the godhood in his blood would destroy him more thoroughly than any blade. Sarevok would be gone forever, and in his place would stand Bhaal Reborn. I would not have that, and so I tell you plainly: Sarevok's ultimate goal is a greater version of his father's own. His goal is to kill the Grand Dukes, claim absolute power in this city, and guide them to war with Amn. Both sides will draw in allies, cities will burn, nations will rot as the chaos spreads without end. And, through magic or just the power of his blood, he believes he can use this endless murder as a source of strength. Thousands will die, _nations_ will die, and he will be borne into the heavens on a wave of their blood."

"Gods above. Divine magic is not my forte, I fear… Could such a ploy actually succeed?" Dynaheir asked softly, stepping slightly closer to Minsc, who notably had nothing to say.

"Does it matter?" Jaheira asked. "The sad truth is that Sarevok's godhood or lack thereof is irrelevant. Whether he gets what he wants or not, the death toll will still be catastrophic. This plan must be stopped before it begins."

"Jaheira is correct," Sephiria said. "We know what he intends, so we must protect the remaining Dukes no matter the cost. He cannot be allowed to ascend his throne. Who remains?"

Tamoko sighed. "I do not know. You have thrown his timetable into madness, and he no longer has the patience to adjust. The original plan was to have Entar Silvershield be assassinated by his faux-Shadow Thieves, Slythe and Kristin. Duke Eltan was to be slowly poisoned by the doppleganger who replaced his personal healer, dying of a 'wasting illness' far from the public eye while Angelo took control of the Fist. Then, at Sarevok's coronation, 'soldiers loyal to Amn' would launch a surprise raid on the palace, killing Dukes Janath and Belt. But obviously, the plan has abandoned the script… he is lashing out madly, trying everything in his power to kill all involved before it can all fall apart. Eltan was obviously murdered, and his puppet Angelo has failed to maintain control of the Fist. Entar, who was meant to die first of all, may yet live," she said, locking eyes with Sephiria. "And there is _you._ You were never meant to get as far as you have. By attacking him directly in the tower, you've cast doubt on many things that were meant to be set in stone; he was attacked and wounded in the seat of his power, on the eve of what should have been a great triumph. People ask why a 'Shadow Thief' would strike so openly. They ask why a party known for heroism, who saved Nashkel's mines and slew the bandits plaguing the Coast Way, would murder an Iron Throne lord in broad daylight, in his own offices. And in asking these things, they occasionally look past the mask of sympathy and generosity he has cultivated, and are reminded what kind of reputation the Iron Throne _truly_ has. He has come very far, but his position is far more precarious than he had wished it to be, and on some level he is _afraid."_

Sephiria chuckled bitterly. "I am pleased some good came of that, then. For me, I fear that it did little but prove to me that I am no match for him in single combat."

"That's okay, though! You aren't single, so we just need to get 'em all like, nine on one," Imoen said brightly. "I got his eye, y'know. That was me. You were gettin' your arse kicked and Imoen the Great was all, 'BOOM! Eyeshot.' Next time I _know_ we'll put that blighter six feet in the ground!"

Tamoko scowled.

"I meant metaphorically. After we save his soul and whatnot," Imoen said without missing a beat. "Righteous holy paladins, we are. Savin' souls is basically what we do. Look at Xan! His soul is _awful_ , but I saved it with my good cheer!"

"I hate everything about my life."

"He's just having a bad day. Too much smoke in his lungs from that fire what you started. Elves are sissies," Imoen said wisely.

Jaheira scowled.

"Not _you,_ Jahrrie. You're a half-elf! It's different, you got strong human blood like me an' we don't let anything break our spirits! … Ugh, I still got goo all on my pink pants, this is the worst day ever," Imoen said, kneeling to wipe at the spot.

Scar sighed, standing to his feet and drawing his sword. "Well, then, we know what the goal is, and we know that Dukes Jannath and Belt must be warned immediately. I have heard all I need to from you. Tamoko of Kara-tur, for the crimes of murder, treason, and conspiracy, I sentence you to death by the power vested in me as rightful commander of the Flaming Fist. May whatever gods you worship have mercy on your soul."

Sephiria leaped up to step between Scar and Tamoko, her arms outstretched. " _Absolutely not!_ She is a prisoner, and…"

"Yes, she _is_ a prisoner. Of me. Angelo is dead and I am the highest-ranking member of the Flaming Fist still alive, so her fate is legally mine to determine," Scar said firmly. "Her crimes are severe enough to warrant the death penalty ten times over, and she has confessed. No amount of aid she could give the city would be enough to earn even _her_ life back after that, much less the life of her _and_ the worst traitor the Gate has ever seen. Sarevok will be tried, found guilty, and executed. And when he gets to the Hells, his accomplice will be waiting for him."

Jaheira chuckled. "Well spoken, lawman. If there were more like you in Calimshan, my years hunting slavers would have been far more convenient."

"You cannot be serious!" Sephiria snapped.

"Quite so. What reason have we to keep our word to a murderous priest of dark gods?" Jaheira said with a shrug, holding up Tamoko's holy symbol, confiscated after the battle. "The Kara-turan gods are too numerous to know them all, but I recognize the marks of war. Of storms. Of gods bloody and violent. Your bond with Sarevok was not born of what a kind man he was in his youth, I think, and your insight into Bhaal not merely the results of study. You know something of darkness, priestess."

"I know enough," Tamoko said, "to back away from the worst of it when I have the chance. I have committed many crimes and I most certainly have earned my death. I chose my life. I will accept the consequences. But Sarevok was born with the darkness already worming into his soul. His childhood was murder and torture. He had no chance to be anything but what he is. I will accept my death if you swear to save him, if you can."

"And that," Sephiria said, "is exactly why I _won't_ accept your death. You have a chance. There is something in you that can be saved. To think that of Sarevok but ignore it in others would be a betrayal of everything I believe. To kill a person for crimes that they genuinely seek to repent and atone for may be the law, Sir Scar, but it is _not_ justice."

"Sentence has been declared. Do I have to go through you?" Scar asked quietly.

"I wouldn't try," Imoen said, very softly, and in the tenseness of the situation Sephiria realized she'd never even seen the younger girl slip out of Scar's reach and move to flank him until she had already nocked an arrow. "Seffie, I'm backing whatever wackiness you're up to. Dunno much about souls, but I trust you with mine so I guess I trust you with hers too."

She fought down a smile of pride. "Thank you, Imoen."

"Still gonna shoot Sarevok's other eye out if he hurts my sister. You okay with that, bitch?"

"… It is a fair reaction," Tamoko said.

Khalid chuckled. "W-well, it seems the passion of youth has s-s-spoken, love. I know you prefer a more… _mundane…_ solution to such people, but… I think I c-choose to trust Gorion's daughters. I will stand with them here as w-w-well."

"Gorion was really more like an uncle to me, actually," Imoen offered.

"S-stop helping, Imoen."

"She never does," Jaheira muttered. "Fine. Soft and childish it is, but I will allow it. Sir Scar, lower your blade and wait to pass judgment until all facts are in, please. Though it is a rare thing in my experience for anyone to change their ways in truth, this one might yet provide needed aid in cutting out the source of the disease on your city."

The officer sighed. "If I attack her, you'll all turn on me."

"Every one of us," Sephiria said firmly.

"I won't," Xan said. "I truly don't care one way or the other. We're all doomed regardless."

"… How have you worked with these people so long, Imoen?" Sephiria asked, after she had finished wincing.

"I got a _great_ personality."

"I'm going to regret this, but. What is our plan?" Scar asked, sheathing his weapon.

"I think first of all, we need to get to the remaining Dukes. Is there any chance, any at all, that they would allow us a meeting?" Sephiria asked.

"None. Angelo might be dead, but he had enough toadies to run the Fist in his absence. They haven't got his charisma or his ruthless streak, and Sarevok is probably going to skin them all alive for being incompetent whoresons as soon as he realizes what a hash they're making of it, but for now we definitely can't trust anyone in the city guard."

"Then I think our best option would be to acquire access to an event we _know_ they will be at. That will give us a crowd to use as cover, to reach them discretely. They have to be suspicious by now," Sephiria said. "Tamoko. Has Sarevok been officially invited to fill Duke Eltan's vacancy? Is there a coronation planned?"

The priestess smiled slightly. "The messenger arrived this morning to let Sarevok know it will be officially declared to the public in two days time, at a public forum to answer questions regarding the growing threat of Amn. Notably, Lords Belt and Janath wished to delay it until after Duke Eltan's state funeral, but while you were incarcerated Sarevok generously offered a donation of 5,000 platinum coins, directly from the Iron Throne's coffers into the Gate's. Purely to help the city cope with the burden of refugees and defense in these trying times of banditry and looming war, of course, and any riots demanding his inauguration this might have spawned among the peasantry are purely coincidence."

Scar laughed bitterly. "Well. Nice to know that no matter how powerful you are, you can still be bribed if someone offers a big enough purse."

Sephiria sighed. "Two days. We have two days to get evidence and reach one of the legitimate Dukes. That is not a generous timetable. And this assumes such evidence exists…"

"There may be a paper trail, but you will not like where we must go to find it," Tamoko said. "Sarevok is not popular among the Iron Throne leadership or employees. He cares nothing for the company and spends its coffers freely on his military and his 'election,' which has earned him many enemies with long memories and deep inkwells. It would not shock me to learn that incriminating evidence exists in the office of some accountant with a grudge, or even in Sarevok's own hand."

Jaheira arced an eyebrow. "You are suggesting he himself may have kept papers that paint him as guilty, and all we must do to find them is go to the very seat of his power. _Really_."

"I am aware this may appear to be a trap, but to you I offer a counterpoint: you do not understand your enemy as I do. He is very intelligent, to be certain, but he is a _straightforward_ intellect. He cares nothing for the conspiracy and the plotting, and has no respect to speak of for anyone without great skill of arms or power of magic. Quill and ink, plot and scheme, these are weapons his father taught him to use, and he _despised_ his father. He can use them, to be certain, but he detests the need and longs for the day when he can abandon them for simple conflict," she said calmly. "Sarevok would see no issue with keeping incriminating documents because he believes anyone strong enough to _take_ them from him would simply try to take his life instead _._ He would never consider the machinations of some clerk to be a threat, because no dragon would _ever_ consider a rat to be a danger to his domain. And Sephiria, a fellow spawn of the dead god… the thought she might not share his hunger for blood and battle is anathema to him. Taking him alive, through guile, is something he would _never_ expect of her."

"What do you know, he's smarter than us," Scar muttered.

" _Sir Scar,"_ Sephiria snapped.

"Sorry."

"Well. Our path seems clear," the young paladin said. "First, we must obtain entry to the Iron Throne's tower and search it for something, _anything_ we can bring to the Dukes. Second, we must actually get them to listen to us long enough to deliver it."

"Khalid and I can handle the latter. We'll need to call in more favors than you can imagine, but we will find the audience… _if_ the evidence exists," Jaheira said.

"It will. I believe Tamoko's intentions are pure."

"You are also almost unbearably naïve. This woman is the lover of the man who killed your father."

Sephiria winced, and sighed deeply behind it. "I… yes. But we have no other options. And… nothing about her seems… _wrong_ to me. She is not impure, if that makes sense. Her words and actions speak to one who is concerned for another over herself, and I cannot call such a person purely evil."

Jaheira held up Tamoko's holy symbol, twirling it idly along one finger. "Evil need not be pure, nor always selfish, to be still evil. Any priestess who answers to gods like hers is little better than the Cyricists and Malarites your code would call you to cut down, paladin."

"To your counterpoint, a counterpoint. What other plan have you?" Tamoko asked. "You are the city's most wanted criminals. You have escaped the Flaming Fist all this time only by living in the sewers like animals, and that option is clearly no longer available. If you had additional allies and resources to draw on, you would have done so by now."

Sephiria winced. "She has a point, Jaheira. I know you and Khalid must have friends, but…"

"But not friends that can be reached quickly enough. Damn," Jaheira muttered. "Fine. We play this her way, but we must have every precaution in place."

"There is an emergency exit in the Iron Throne tower, for executives of the company to escape in the event of an attack… or an inspection. I will tell you where it opens in the city," Tamoko said. "Once you know that, my use to you ends. There is nothing I can do to stop you from killing me, if you wish to do so. Will this assuage your worries?"

Sephiria nodded. "Very well. We've manpower to spare; three of us will stay with Tamoko, and the rest will infiltrate through this tunnel. If we do not return within half an hour, assume she betrayed us."

"You should be one of the ones who stays. You're a big galumphing moose," Imoen said cheerfully. "You, Scar, an' Minsc stay. If I'm gonna be doing any sneaking about, then you're the ones I absolutely don't want around."

Sephiria gritted her teeth. "Perhaps we should send you in alone, then, if you're so certain I'll ruin the carefully laid plans of _Imoen the Subtle._ Who is wearing _bright pink_."

"An' who is so, _so_ talented at her craft that she can vanish into the shadows regardless! Unlike certain flame-haired giantesses who got caught every time we tried to steal sweet rolls from Winthrop's special baking day. _Every. Time,_ " Imoen said, her grin never wavering.

"I never tried! _You_ tried, and waited until I was walking by so you could make it look like I helped you!"

Jaheira sighed. _My word. And here I thought Sarevok was her worst sibling._

* * *

 

It was all going so perfectly that Acherai felt almost like some divine providence had chosen him as its instrument of vengeance against the Iron Throne, and he was not about to complain.

With the morning had come the news spreading across the city like wildfire of the massacre at the Silvershield estate, and it had apparently _not_ been the night's only disaster. Acherai had practically cheered out loud when the criers announced that the deadly murderer Sephiria of Candlekeep had escaped from the Fist's gaols at dusk the previous evening, and acting commander Angelo Dosan had not yet made a public statement.

Acherai hadn't had to meet Sarevok to work out that he was _not_ a forgiving master. If this Angelo had been in charge of holding the girl, and the girl was no longer held, then he hadn't 'made a public statement' because he no longer had a tongue with which to do so. And whoever had replaced Angelo was clearly in a _very_ big rush to leave a better impression on their leadership, because patrols in the city had redoubled; the noble district, the trade district, and (oddly enough) the area around the city's seedier taverns were under heavy watch. Something about a mysterious sewer fire causing the Blushing Mermaid's basement to collapse.

("Damn fools, going around burnin' perfectly good whores! If Sarevok didn't need ta die before, he most surely does now," Kagain had grumbled, and nobody had cared enough to ask. The details had probably been pretty vile anyway, if it involved Kagain and prostitutes.)

What mattered to Acherai, though, was that with this many patrols wandering the streets, finding a small, isolated one was not nearly so difficult as it would have been normally.

Killing them without getting too much blood on the armor was harder, but Shar-teel knew how to use a club and she was _oddly_ enthusiastic about this task.

"I don't like this," Coran muttered, his stolen uniform slightly too small. Acherai envied him; his own was slightly too _large_ , and he was supposed to be playing the commander. The only one who fit her damn outfit was Shar-damn-teel, one of the young guards she'd beaten to death being a woman almost exactly her size. And she _still_ seemed furious, because she always seemed furious.

"None of us like wearing these," Acherai said as they marched down the middle of the street towards the Iron Throne tower, as bold as… well, as bold as city guards in the middle of a sunny morning, in fact. "They're bulky and they smell. Bear with it."

"Not _that!_ You killed three watch officers! Doesn't that strike anyone else as problematic?!" he hissed.

"First of all, _lower your tone_. Second of all, no. You heard Entar; the old Commander of the Fist died and was replaced with a man who literally used to work for Sarevok's household? That isn't even _subtle_ corruption. The organization is little more than an arm of the Iron Throne at this point."

"We can't say that with any certainty. And just because one leader is corrupt doesn't meant they _all_ are."

"Angelo Dosan," Shar-teel growled. "Is a bastard. And calling him that is an insult to bastards everywhere. Trust me when I say anyone who'd work for him is either crooked enough he has it coming, or dumb enough he'd be dead soon anyway."

"See? And if _she_ thinks someone is evil, that's as bad a sign as any I can imagine," Acherai said with a shrug.

"An' that's supposed to mean what, exactly?" Shar-teel grumbled.

"That you're a dangerous, amoral, murderer."

"… aye, that's fair."

Coran sighed. "As soon as we aren't being marked for death by some of the wealthiest men in the region, I'm leaving this group. I thought you should know."

"Nobody will miss you," Shar-teel said, not even stopping to glance at him. "There's the tower, boss."

"All right, people. Heads up, scowls on, and no killing anyone unless they start something. Just follow my lead and look like angry mercenaries."

She rolled her eyes. "We _are_ angry mercenaries. These bastards tried to kill us last night, we've not slept, and the looting's been shit since we plundered those mines."

"Then you really should be better at this," Acherai whispered as they approached the doorman. "Good morning, sir! Please open the doors, here, I'm afraid we need to search the building. Watch business."

The man turned a gaze on them that was more considerate than he'd have expected on a door guard. Apparently the Iron Throne saved the _good_ mercenaries for home. "You need to search _here_."

"Yes sir, that is indeed what I said. Do your civic duty and open the door for us, if you could."

"… You do know who you work for?"

"Angelo Dosan is currently chief of the Fist, pending a review," Acherai said promptly. "And he's ordered us to search this location for the fugitive Sephiria of Candlekeep or any evidence linking her to this institution or its leadership. Please open the door? I'd hate to have to come back with a warrant."

The doorman spent the next several seconds choking on nothing, and Acherai had to fight down a grin. "A… are you _mad_ , you daft-"

"We can wait if you need to clear it with your leadership," Acherai said mildly. "Feel free to go ask Director Anchev."

The man paled. "I can't _ask_ him. _You_ can't come in here! He'll kill both of us if I let you-"

Acherai nodded. "A warrant it is, then. Commander Dosan didn't want to formally accuse Lord Anchev of complicity in the murder of his father until we'd had time to investigate…"

" _What?!_ "

"Of course, no-one seriously _suspects_ Lord Sarevok, but we do have to be certain. You have to realize how this looks, don't you? Your tower was attacked by Amnish mercenaries, in broad daylight, and yet _only_ Lord Rieltar was killed. That seems to us less like an 'attack' and more like a targeted assassination, but out of respect for the Anchev family's role as pillars of the community, we allowed them time to mourn before conducting on-site investigation of the family. However, Commander Dosan feels with Sephiria's of Candlekeep's escape from custody, all available resources have to be redirected to this investigation immediately," Acherai said calmly. "And of course, with the highly suspicious passing of Duke Eltan and last evening's attack on Duke Silvershield…"

"Wh-"

"Ah, you hadn't heard of it yet. I suspect you've been on duty too long. Yes, an attack was made, several members of his household were killed, and extensive damage was done to the structure itself. Fortunately, the Duke himself is in a secure location, but he is understandably furious at this breach in security. We have, in response to pressure from Lord Silvershield, redoubled the search for Sephiria of Candlekeep… and her financier, for surely she possesses one to be making two such bold assaults. And, well, thus far there is only a single individual in the city with both the funding and the motive. Lord Rieltar's death and the loss of a Grand Duke both benefit Lord Sarevok directly, considering his inheritance and his Dukedom campaign. Of course nobody _suspects_ him!" Acherai said again, in the infuriatingly reassuring tone of an officer who is not really trying to be reassuring, "but we naturally have to investigate. Commander's orders."

" _Are. You. Insane?!_ " the doorman hissed. "Lord Sarevok will kill us all if I let you in here and you damn well know it! He already gutted the company pursuing his ducal campaign, there's talk of the main branch in Sembia sending agents to sanction him, and you want to _accuse him of murder?!_ When the Dukes finally approved the emergency election?! Has Angelo lost his _mind_?!"

"I'm afraid I don't know anything about that, sir. Never taken much interest in politics," Acherai said, his voice laced with the same bland and idiotic devotion to duty that all guards used when they were trying to make someone's day worse for petty reasons. You didn't grow up a criminal without hearing _that_ tone a few times in your life. "I'll just leave, and be back in a few hours with a warrant. Please let Lord Anchev know that Commander Dosan wishes to speak to him at the earliest opportunity, and he can expect another messenger shortly. Thank you, and have a nice day, sir."

Acherai spun on his heel to march away from the very, very pale door guard, finally allowing himself a tight grin. _And right now you're thinking: 'Do I tell someone, and risk Sarevok killing me for being the bearer of bad news? Or do I try to keep it a secret when I know that anyone in the main lobby and anyone walking down the street definitely saw three guards walk up to us and ask search the building?' It doesn't matter. Sarevok will know we were here within the hour and he'll know what we asked ten minutes after that. And by then, half the city will be talking about the Flaming Fist suddenly turning their investigation on the noble young lord. People start to wonder if maybe they don't really **understand**_ _why he's been so terribly generous, and what really **did**_ _happen to his father, and isn't it **odd** how sudden his push for a dukedom has been. How convenient, wasn't it, that an opening just happened to exist right when the local hero's name is on everyone's lips…_

And then, both his march and his good mood came to a sudden stop as someone inside the lobby of the tower screamed for the watch, and more than one pedestrian's face turned to stare directly at their little group with a mixture of panic and expectation.

Coran grinned at him. "No rest for the loyal watchmen, sir?"

"You know, Coran, I don't agree with Shar-teel often, but. I really won't miss you when you're gone," he growled, drawing the unfamiliar sword at his belt.


	23. Chapter Twenty-two

It had, Imoen felt, been goin’ pretty well up until she almost got eaten.

The Iron Throne tower was the single nicest building she had ever been in, and she’d grown up in a magic library.  Every candlestick was silver, every doorknob was brass with gold inlay.  The doors were mahogany and the carpeted paths along the marble floor were so cushy she felt she was going to sink into them.  Someone here had made a _lot_ of money being _very_ evil, and she wanted to steal all of it just on principle. She’d seen the mines at Nashkel, seen what happened to caravans in the woods, seen the burning of the Undercellars.  People just trying to live their lives, miners and whores and petty merchants just going day to day, even if they weren’t doing a very good job of it sometimes. And then Sarevok came into their lives out of nowhere and stepped on them like they were just bugs, and it _wasn’t right_ that he should be rewarded for it.

But as much as she wanted to clean this place out from the doorknobs down, walking out the back door with a sack full of gold and a smug expression wouldn’t save anyone. Someone like this, little crimes didn’t matter. Only the _big_ ones would stick, and so she needed to prove they’d already happened. And that meant approaching things with her traditional cunning and wit.

 _“_ I hate you, child,” Dynaheir murmured.  Because she didn’t fully appreciate cunning and wit. 

“It ain’t my fault you’re our best fake noblewoman,” Imoen replied, locked into step just slightly behind the witch while they strode down the halls like they owned them.  Because, as far as anyone was concerned, they did. 

Imoen’s plan had been simple and one-fold, and it relied on the fact that most people were, frankly, idiots.  The Iron Throne had to be spending a _ton_ of money on all the bribes and murders and election campaigns (all equally evil in her mind), so it only made sense that someone would be very unhappy with Sarevok further up the business food chain.  Now, Dynaheir did not actually look like someone from Sembia, but Imoen had no idea what a person from Sembia _did_ look like and she was willing to bet most people in the Gate also didn’t.  So when a strange woman, surrounded by guards, just _randomly_ showed up in the tower proclaiming she was here to inspect the premises on order of the main branch, pretty much nobody was willing to gainsay her. More than one guard had outright just _left_ , torn off their insignia and left the building to go find another job. 

“Yes, but the _hat_ ,” Dynaheir muttered.

“Need a hat. Hat’s the key to the whole operation,” Imoen said. 

“It does seem to be helping,” Jaheira said, her tone oddly strangled as if she was trying not to laugh, but of course that was impossible because she had no sense of humor. None. 

The hat, Imoen had to admit, was not one she’d have worn herself. It was a _noble_ hat, not for a guttersnipe like her: It was a foot tall, then another two feet after that from the ostrich feather on top (imported, that was, very fancy).  It was bright red with green velvet worked along every seam.  It practically _glowed_ with authority and hideousness. Anyone who wore it _knew_ they were in charge, because if you wore it and were _not_ in charge you’d be laughed out of the room. You did not argue with a hat like that. She’d ‘found’ it on their way to the tower through ‘legitimate means’ and worked it into the plan.

And so it was that Chief Inspector Dina Heer of Sembia (plus entourage) had entered through the back entrance only executives knew about and informed the guards stationed at it that she was looking for the chief accountant’s office _please,_ and anyone who said a _word_ to Lord Sarevok would be looking for another job. Dynaheir was very good at being imperious and none of the tower guards were even _half_ so difficult to get the attention of as Minsc, so it had worked out very well so far.   

“I thought this was a serious situation.  Why am I then being humiliated?” Dynaheir whispered. More loudly, she said to a young clerk walking by with a sheaf of parchment, “You there! Boy!  _Why_ has the chief finance officer of this building not reported to me?!  I requested his presence nearly thirty-five seconds ago!” 

Imoen grinned as the kid ran for his life.  “See, you’re having fun.”

“More importantly, the staff has barely made any move to dissuade us,” Jaheira murmured.  “The guards are abandoning their posts at the first opportunity, and the offices are half-empty. This feels more like a crypt than a place of business.” 

“T-the whole building s-s-mells of fear.  Th-they aren’t sure if they’re m-more afraid of leaving or s-staying,” Khalid said softly.  “I h-have seen it before.” 

His wife nodded with a grimace. “In slaver dens, where they know the law is coming for them, but have too much ‘merchandise’ to flee and know their master will kill them for abandoning it. Sarevok’s mind is degenerating more quickly than expected, it seems.”

“We shouldn’t have come,” Xan said flatly. “He has to know his own organization will have him killed for what he’s doing to their operations here.  If he thinks we’re with them, he’ll kill us on sight. Or if he recognizes us from the attack in the lobby. Or if he’s just in the mood.”

“So we make sure he doesn’t see us, Mr. Negative,” Imoen said, sticking her tongue out. “Nobody’s in a rush to go find him, ya note.  We just need to keep this up until we get into the recordkeeper’s offices and get to look around.  We walk in like we own the place, steal every piece of paper with his big ugly name on it, and walk out. Anybody who goes to tell the big man we were here is risking getting a sword shoved up his arse and they know it. We’re golden.”  

She opened a door, and there was an ogre on the other side. 

She closed the door. 

“Okay, did anyone else see that, or…” 

The door opened again, creaking as the wood snapped in the hands of something gigantic and strong, and the ogre lowered its head to step through the human-sized door and look down on Imoen. Down. And down. And down.

She noted, very distressed, that it had fresh blood on its lips.

“You smell familiar. Why is that?” Tazok asked, surprisingly softly for a six hundred pounds of pure muscle. He idly reached up to scratch at the scars on his neck where Sarevok had chopped his head off to drag it back to the Gate for resurrection; the clerics told him it should not hurt, but he swore it still did. “You are intruders, yes? Good. Hungry night.”

Imoen drew herself up to her much less than impressive full height, really hoping her comrades had gotten the hint and were going for their weapons while she said, “ _Excuse_ you, sir?!  We are the guards and attaché of _Lady_ Dina Heer of Sembia, here to inspect this tower for the Iron Throne main branch, and-”

Tazok chuckled.  “Not an inspector.   These _my_ chambers until Sarevok sends me off to kill for him, and everyone knows to stay out of my room, because last time a guard woke me up I ate him. So if you was really an inspector, they tell you _not_ to come here.”

“Well, we-” Imoen began.

“And second,” Tazok hissed, drawing his hand from behind his back to reveal half of what Imoen really hoped was not, but definitely knew _was_ , a human heart, “ _This_ was the inspector from Sembia.  Came in the middle of the night. Made the mistake of announcing to Sarevok his visit.  Now, _all_ of you is too much to eat at once, but I was thinking of making jerky.  So you should start running now.” 

Imoen considered this, knowing full well that Jaheira and Khalid were literal seconds away from drawing weapons and charging, Dynaheir and Xan most likely had spells half-ready, and that the only reason Tazok hadn’t already clamped his teeth down on someone was that he didn’t think of them as a real threat. She then considered that Sarevok had smashed them up like cheap glass the last time they’d run into him, and therefore they _should not_ be getting into a fight when he was most likely _right upstairs._

She had only _instants_ to consider a plan. 

And so it was she picked what was going to be precisely the wrong option, but in her defense she didn’t realize this at the time. 

 _“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK, OGRE!”_ she shrieked, pulling her dagger from her belt and chucking it at Tazok’s face from six feet away, before turning to run away as fast as she could. “ _GUARDS! GUAAAAAAAARDS!”_

* * *

 

Acherai considered his options, and he was not at all happy with them.

The most obvious choice was to murder the Iron Throne door guard right then and there, in the middle of the street. The issue with that was that it would definitely cause a giant panic in scenic downtown Baldur’s Gate, and the last thing he wanted was for his face to be burned into the memory of a few hundred angry citizens.  Even barring the fact someone would almost definitely sell the information to Sarevok, he would like to come back to this city someday. And rob it. 

He could run away, but that would torpedo the plan right then and there. The entire _idea_ had been to make Sarevok paranoid about the trust he’d placed in the Flaming Fist, cause him to lash out at his own allies and, in the view of everyone else, turn against the city itself.  He was maniacal and violent enough to do it, Acherai had worked that much out, but If he knew that this was anything _other_ than his pawn in the organization making a power play against him then it would all fall apart.  He needed to think they had been _real guards_ trying to _really investigate_ him, even if they’d never gotten past the door. 

And the third option was to act like a real guard and go inside the building. This was a _terrible_ idea.  But…

_But, and this is going to make Coran a **smug ass,** it seems like the only one that will work.  _

He turned toward the door guard, putting on his best ‘no-nonsense’ face, the one that you got right before you ended up sharing a cell with Shady Pete for the night even if they couldn’t prove you _actually_ stole anything, and said, “Well.  I think we can safely say that this is an active crime scene _now_.  Step aside.” 

“But-”

“For M…Torm’s sake, man, lives are in danger! Stand aside, or better yet, go wave down the nearest patrol and tell them to come back us up!” he snapped, barely catching himself on swearing to the right god before he proceeded to Fake Justice.  He resolved to offer Torm a few dozen gold later on in the week so he wouldn’t get cursed for lying about devotion, and pushed past him.  “ _Everyone, clear the building please! Flaming Fist investigation, chief Dosan’s orders!  Anyone who interferes will be in a holding cell until midwinter and don’t you doubt it!”_

Less loudly, to Coran and Shar-teel, he said, “Right then, let’s try to not actually find who’s screaming. Steal anything that looks official, especially documents they don’t want us to take.  And for all the gods’ sakes do _not_ talk to Sarevok directly, if he knows the Fist well and realizes we aren’t them, we’re dead.” 

“You realize, of course, that we have no idea what he looks like?”

“He’ll be the one most unhappy to see people here. _Move._ ”   

* * *

 

Winski Perorate was Sarevok’s oldest and (by process of elimination, at this point) most devoted servant, and he was a very strange man.

He had made a great study of Bhaal and his children, ever since the day he had first come to suspect Sarevok’s true heritage all those years ago, but he had certainly never been a devotee of the dead god, nor Cyric after him.  In truth, he cared nothing for the gods and was reasonably sure they cared nothing for him, and he was quite pleased with this.  Nor could he be said to be one of Sarevok’s worshippers, the maniacs drawn in by the aura of power and blood he exuded as effortlessly as breathing. He had been the first to notice it, the first to suspect the boy’s effortless warrior skill and daunting bloodlust might stem from a darker source than mere human ability, but he had never become the slavering fanatic so many others did.  Nor could he be said to love Sarevok in any sense of the word; not as Tamoko did, certainly, but despite being the young demigod’s most consistent male role model for most of his life, he held no familial affection for him either.  In fact, Winski’s goal in life was so charmingly mundane it was almost irreconcilable with the skill of magic and politics that man had given over wholeheartedly to his young patron for years upon years of plotting, maneuvering, and bloodshed.

Winski (and Sarevok nearly laughed out loud every time he thought about it) wanted to be famous.

He wanted his name to be known in every land of the world, written in history books, spoken by children from Chult to Kara-tur. When the War of Bhaal shook the Realms, when blood flowed and chaos was sown, he wanted the survivors to remember that it was _he_ who had instigated it. He who had found Sarevok, tutored him, given him the knowledge and tools to ascend the now-vacant Throne of Bhaal. When the immortal Sarevok tore life from the masses a thousand years from now, they would curse the name of Winski Perorate for giving him the opportunity.  He would be recalled as one of the greatest villains in all history, reviled and cursed for millennia to come.

It was, he claimed, the only true immortality that a man like him could hope to achieve, and therefore the only goal worth seeking. Sarevok personally found the entire concept somewhere between pathetic and idiotic, but it kept the man loyal. Or at least as loyal as someone with absolutely no morals and a bottomless well of narcissism could be.

“We have finished the repairs to the temple, milord. You were right, of course; it was an old shrine to Bhaal, and a _very_ unholy one. Semaj reports that he couldn’t even see original color of the stone through the old blood caking the floor.  It was clearly a ritual site for the Bhaalists to hold mass human sacrifices near the city. An _exemplary_ find!” the old mage said, smiling widely. 

“It wasn’t a ‘find.’ I knew it was there. Rieltar might have spent years trying to convince me it was a nightmare, but I never really believed it…” Sarevok murmured, studying his blade idly. He had not allowed it to leave his hand since Tamoko had… either failed him or betrayed him, it hardly mattered which.  He could not be in full armor at all times, perhaps, but he always held the sword. It was the only thing he could fully trust.  “The Deathstalkers tried to kill me there, once.  It was some ritual to bring back their dead god, I assume. Childish idiots, wasting their time trying to resurrect their own slavemaster because they were too afraid to face the world without him. Whatever death found them, it wasn’t painful enough.”     

“Well, for now, all that matters is that it is an unholy site of Bhaal that still retained some power, and was able to be repaired. I could not imagine a finer place to hold the final ritual, once your war has begun. I shall begin studying the Cyricist libraries we’ve raided for-”

“Ah, yes, the war,” Sarevok said, his tone oddly soft.  “I think it may not be necessary, in fact.” 

The old mage stopped mid-sentence, his jaw looking as though it wanted to detach itself from his head and burrow through the floor.  “M… milord? Are you… are you _quite_ serious…?”

“Of course. Look around you, old man.  Slythe and Kristin have not returned from Silvershield’s estate, and my spies have not found proof of his death.  And of course, the chaos in the Undercellars… my acolytes are dead. Cythandria is dead. Tamoko… I would have thought her too powerful to fall alongside those dolts, but she has not returned.  My election to Grand Duke is by no means guaranteed. And now Angelo has betrayed me. _”_

Winski sighed, looking at the dead guard in the corner of the room, the man struck by a blow that had nearly cut his torso in half through his chain shirt.  “I was wondering if you killed him for a reason.”

“He opened the door to tell me the Fist are raiding the tower and Tazok is running wild on the lower floors. I lost my temper and needed blood to calm myself,” Sarevok said. He had honestly forgotten the corpse was even there until Winski pointed it out.  “Didn’t you hear the screaming?”

“My hearing is not what it once was, milord. One more reason to consider my legacy, I suppose… these old bones have only a decade or two left in them, hm?” Winski said.  “But… sir, is this not an issue? There is evidence of _quite a lot_ of wrongdoing within these walls. If guardsmen find it and leave alive, your appointment to Duke Eltan’s seat…” 

Sarevok smiled, and even the ruthless, amoral old man, who had killed at least a hundred men in his long life, paled at the sight.  “I don’t _need_ it anymore, you dolt.  All these years, all this planning, to kill a few hundred thousand mindless, helpless idiots?  A ‘war.’  Murder on a grand scale. I thought that was what I needed, but now… my brother and my sister. Her shining in deluded self-righteousness, running into the front lines to survive again and again, despite all odds. And him skulking in the shadows, stabbing me in the back at every opportunity before I ever even knew he existed.  In the space of a few months they have ruined plans I laid for _years_.  They are the key!  Their lives, sacrificed to _me_!”

The young man opened his eyes, and the golden glow in them was so intense that Winski actually took an involuntary step back.  “ _That_ is my path to power. Their two souls will be worth more than everyone in this misbegotten city combined. And when I have it… when I _have it,_ the war to come will be a _very different thing_ , Winski. I will stride this world like a colossus, cutting down my brothers and sisters one after another and eating their hearts while they still live.  The streets will run red with the blood of anyone who stands in my way.  I will leave this continent a charnel house, a _monument_ to bloody death, and it will become the tower that raises me to the heavens. No need for plans or armies, no need for hiding in boardrooms or wasting my life with the political machinations of insects.  With my own hand, I will _burn them all.”_   

Winski considered this for a long moment, and with what haste he could manage on his old joints, fell to one knee before Sarevok.  “What aid I can offer, my lord, is yours. Now, more than ever.”

Sarevok’s grin turned slightly mischievous, and against all odds this made it somehow _more_ horrible. “And when the name of Sarevok is shouted out as a lamentation of the dying, the name of Winski Perorate will be whispered in hatred by the survivors as the one who first set him on his path? He will be remembered as one of history’s most despised men?”

Winski smiled, the expression stretching his thin face across his skull in something that looked far more like a grimace than any expression of joy.  “Yes. But he will be _remembered_.” 

“A fine answer, old man.  Rise, and return to Semaj.  Tell him to begin desecrating the temple, destroy any sign of Bhaal’s influence there. He is dead and gone, and has no place in what is to come.  I need the power of the place, not of the dusty old corpse that once dwelt there,” Sarevok murmured, grinning ever wider at the roar of fury that rose up in his blood at the words.  _“_ My blood is not fuel for Bhaal’s return, his corrupt old bones are the pyre that will light my ascension.  My first temple should reflect that.” 

“And your… siblings? How will we bring them to you? They have thus far proven… difficult. And you have little left in the way of disposable fodder to bring to bear against them.”

The younger man sighed in annoyance. “Are you deaf? We won’t have to. This is _destiny,_ old man. They will come to me, to be the first sacrifices to my impending divinity. There is no higher purpose for them.”   

“As you say, milord.  I will go now. Do you require transport?” 

Sarevok ran his hand along the edge of the Sword of Chaos, enjoying the feeling of the razor edge slitting open the darkened skin of his hand, brilliant red sparkling against it in the low firelight of his chambers. “No, no, not yet. I will summon you when I’m ready to begin the ceremony. For now… I am free of my last obligations, you see? I shed the Iron Throne, like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Therefore, I may, for the first time in my life, _do whatever I want_.  So, I believe I am going to kill everyone in this building… just because I want to.” 

Winski coughed. “Very good, milord. Um… you should perhaps consider exempting Tazok from that… if it pleases you.” 

Sarevok’s smiled widened once again, far past the point of twisting his features into something inhuman, his face looking like nothing so much as a skull with twin flames lit in the eye sockets, silhouetted in the darkness of his chambers. 

“No promises.” 

* * *

 

“All right, nobody move! This is a surprise inspection, and…” Acherai began as they ascended the stairs to the second floor of the tower.

Several things happened then. 

First, a very pink young woman slid down the bannister past him, screaming “ _Killitkillitkillitkillitkillit…”_

Second, the stairs up ahead of him were _shattered_ as a creature at least four feet taller than him slammed down on them from the floor above. _Through_ the floor above.  He took a shocked moment to analyze this, because he almost couldn’t _not_ ; it was an ogre, and a _distressingly familiar_ one, bloody foam on its lips and a Iron Throne guard’s sword in its massive hand. The weapon was almost comically too small for the creature, and the blood on its hilt suggested that the ogre was not its owner, and further that its owner had _not_ given it up willingly. An armored half-elf with a sword was hanging from its back, hacking away at its shoulder, but the ogre did not appear to notice or care. 

Third, the creature took one look at him, roared so loudly Acherai felt his skeleton vibrate under his skin, and swung the blade in at his head.

The counter was not graceful, because there _was_ no counter. He had a sword he barely knew how to use, a dagger that would be as much use as trying to kill the monster with a toothpick, and a chainmail shirt that weighed down his limbs and made spellcasting awkward at best.  He did the only thing that could be done in the quarter-second he had to react: went totally boneless and fell backward down the stairs between Shar-teel and Coran, leaving them in the line of fire while he painfully rolled down, using gravity for speed and relying on the helmet and chainmail to avoid a concussion. 

“… Ass,” Shar-teel and Coran muttered in a rare moment of perfect unison as they had _just_ enough time to realize what had been done, before the creature was on them. 

* * *

 

Jaheira had only fought something along the lines of a dozen ogres in her career as an adventurer. Most of her work for the Harpers was, sadly, done in cities, dealing with the corruption that so often arose there; and when she did have occasion to walk in the wild as she preferred, it was far more likely to encounter orcs or goblins, the fastest breeders of the monstrous races.  Still, she liked to think she was enough of a veteran to not be surprised by anything an ogre could do. 

And then the damn thing had charged through their group with speed that she’d have called off-putting in _wolf_ , much less a creature of such unwieldy bulk, eight hundred pounds of solid muscle moving with more grace than she’d ever felt _herself_ move with, to be sure.  The mages were caught entirely flat-footed, and she firmly suspected that she’d be dragging a dead elf out of this building to find a suitable priest, had the creature not been so firmly dedicated to the death of young Imoen. 

 _A death I almost wish to let it visit upon her, for this is **entirely her fault** , if it did not have my husband clinging to its damn back and trying to chop its head off with a butter-knife! _She thought as she ran, blood pounding in her ears as she tried in vain to chase a creature with legs twice as long as her own through a damnable maze of a building that it knew well, and she had never been in. She did not know if the two mages were still following her, but she _did_ know she was certainly in better physical condition than either of them, and that she couldn’t wait.

Under normal circumstances, she would have cheerfully assumed her husband was more than able to face down such a beast. But they were in hostile territory, and that thing was _strong_.  Khalid might be able to chip it down over time, but time was exactly what they did not have, and so it fell to her to keep her husband alive until such time as she could kill him for making her worry so.

Something roared and shattered on the floor beneath her, and she cursed under her breath, murmuring a spell to armor her flesh as she prepared herself to leap into battle beside her husband or heal his wounds, whichever he called to her for. She took the final steps between her and her quarry, rounding the corner…

And an elf, blood running from his nose, slammed into her as something hurled him up the steps like a ragdoll despite a (painfully) heavy suit of Flaming Fist guard armor.

She was not amused, on _any_ level, but now was not the time to let the idiot have a piece of her mind.  Because up the stairs behind him, thin red slashes over his chest and face that he barely seemed to _notice_ , the ogre stormed upon her like a mountain that had learned to walk. 

The elf was not dead, judging from the hacking coughs that spoke to her of a rib pressing painfully against a lung, an injury she was familiar with from _both_ angles. But he was also not moving near quickly enough for the situation, and weighing her down he was going to get them both killed, so she kneed him in the chest, ignoring the half-hearted moan of agony as he rolled off her; he _was_ a Flaming Fist, after all, and they had proven themselves hopelessly corrupt, even if this one seemed to be on the right side of justice unlike his comrades. She would heal him later, unless he did something else to irritate her.

The ogre was already nearly upon her by the time she got her feet beneath her, and so she did the one thing that these creatures _never_ expected, and used her kneeling position to _lunge_ at it, meeting the creature’s charge head on.  The incoming blade, more like a long knife than a sword to the beast, swung at the spot she had _been_ rather than where she was, and she used the moment of imbalance to dance to its side and slam her staff against its unarmored elbow, in hopes of making it drop the weapon entirely. 

The impact would have broken a man’s arm like a twig, left his elbow bent backwards at the joint.

Tazok appeared not to notice.

The creature stepped forward into her, wrapping an arm like a tree trunk around her waist, and began to _squeeze_ , the pain so sudden and intense that she could barely hear as it hissed. “ _Elves, elves, elves,_ everywhere damnable _elves._ Last one only lived as long as he did because he brought so many damn arrows, wench, you’ll die _easy…_ ” 

The attack came from two directions, just as she felt the first rib crack; her husband to the left, and a woman in Fist armor that she did not know to the right, bringing blades slashing in with expert coordination borne of two veterans choosing to fight together, even though they had never met. A pair of long, heavy blades, each one taking the ogre on a different shoulder and cutting in toward the center with intent to cleave his torso into four pieces.

Each blade pierced perhaps an inch into his body.

Tazok appeared not to notice. 

With a terrible, bloody grin, he squeezed harder. 

* * *

 

 _Hells hells hells,_ Imoen thought, realizing only after she’d hit the front door that nobody was actually following her.  _I’m gonna have to go back for them, and all ‘cause they didn’t run good. Why is everyone stupid but me?!_

“Who. The Hells. Are _you_?” said the cute elf in the Flaming Fist armor that had been huffing and puffing along behind her in armor that was clearly too heavy for his skinny elf butt.  “And what. Did you find. Up there?”

“We found a frickin’ ogre!” Imoen snapped, pulling her bow from her back.  “Look, I gotta go back up and shoot it, so if yer here to arrest me for saving Seffie, I’m gonna have to go through you.” 

“Sef… _Sephiria?!_ Is this about damn Sephiria of Candlekeep?! _Gods_ , I should have known you were involved with that lunatic. Everything she touches devolves into _extremely moral_ insanity,” he muttered, tossing aside his helmet with an expression of disgust and beginning to strip off his chainmail shirt.

Imoen coughed. “I, uh, actually don’t want your clothes. Nothing personal, I’m sure the ladies love ya, but I’m kinda busy…”

“I need to get this mess off me so I can cast spells properly, you idiot,” he snapped, revealing to her great relief that he had clothes on under his armor.  “Look, you’ve ruined everything I was trying to do here, but I can still salvage it if when we leave, it looks like the Flaming Fist attacked the tower and killed half the guards.”  

“… Wait, you know Seffie?” Imoen asked, her mind clicking onto the words of a few seconds past, before he distracted her with takin’ off his drawers. 

 _“Try to keep up_. I’m saying that if you don’t have anything you came here for, and _I_ don’t have anything I came here for, we might as well work together since we clearly aren’t friends of the Iron Throne,” he snapped.  “My party is fighting that beast on the floor above.  If we both engage as distance support we should…”

He trailed off, his face going more pale than usual, and his eyes widening as he turned to face the staircase. 

 _“_ They’re not doing well. I would have killed them, but Tazok hasn’t had any fun in a good long time,” Sarevok said softly, descending the stairs, lightly tapping a huge, wicked blade on each step as he walked.  “And I felt… something. Further down.” 

He touched what remained of his eye under the black patch, and smiled at Imoen. “I remember you.”

He turned to Acherai, his smile fading to be replaced by an expression that was at once hungry and empty.  “And it’s been a long time, but… I remember _you_ , too.  It’s just like I told the old man.

“ ** _Destiny._** _”_


	24. Chapter Twenty-three

There were people who said that childhood trauma was easy to forget. That a youth would repress the memories automatically, while their minds were still young enough to be malleable. A natural defense mechanism, to let them move on with their lives after something that should have otherwise destroyed them.

It was, in Acherai's experience, a damn lie. He remembered the temple. He remembered _every detail._ The cages, the knives, the arrow ripping through the little girl while her kiss was still warm on his cheek, every _drop of blood_ still shone in his memory to this day. And the human boy, unusually tall and strong for his age, that had saved his life at the last second…

_I told you when I opened the cage: that's the last you're getting from me. That's the last anyone is getting from me._

Logically speaking, it should have been impossible to place the boy as an adult. It had been too long, humans aged too rapidly and changed too much over the years. Beyond sharing the same basic skin tone, this walking wall of muscle had nothing physical in common with the boy that had saved and abandoned him in that nightmarish pit.

But it was him. It had to be him. Not just from his words, but from the blood pounding in Acherai's ears telling him over a din that sounded like the death screams of a thousand terrified souls, that destiny was at hand, that he had to _kill or be killed, and that either path was acceptable._

**_So if you want to survive, if you want your meaningless life to extend one more day, you will kill him, kill him, KILL HIM!_ **

He never even felt his hand move before the wand was in it and pointed at Sarevok's face as he walked down the stairs, his smile lazy and unconcerned. It was a lovely piece, inset with ruby dust and gold inlay, the tip in the shape of a dragon's open maw.

Imoen was not a mage, but she _was_ smart. She was already in motion diving for the tower's front door before the trigger phrase even left the elf's lips. A ball of fire the size of a fist tore out of the dragon's mouth and rocketed across the entry hall, slamming into the stairway at Sarevok's feet and detonating in a bloom of flame that tore through the stairs, igniting wood and shattering marble with the sheer heat and force…

And Sarevok, his single eye glowing a brilliant gold that outshone the flame by far, leaped out of the inferno with inhuman strength, his blade held above his head and a smile of absolute glee on his burned face as he descended like an avenging demon.

Acherai dove back, his own face twisting almost involuntarily into an expression that was equal parts smile and snarl as the giant man slammed down, his blade digging into the marble of the entry hall like it was no more solid than a pool of water, before drawing out just as quickly, untouched by either fire or stone as it slashed through the air less than an inch in front of the retreating elf's face as he danced backward again, a spell already on his lips.

He could swing a staff reasonably well and was a fine hand with a dagger, but fighting this _thing_ in melee was a hopeless pursuit. If he was going to survive this battle, it would be by his magecraft and his guile. He knew, at least, that he was quite good at _those…_

Sarevok pursued him with agility that would have been shocking in a trained acrobat, his blade slashing in at Acherai's neck with speed that felt impossible, even as the elf watched it happen. The spell abandoned, he dove back again, and again, moving with reflexes honed by a lifetime on the streets fleeing from people bigger and stronger than himself. And yet the colossal warrior kept on his heels; never quite catching him, perhaps, but never giving him a moment to rest or even _think._ It was all he could do to stay just _barely_ alive...

And then Sarevok stopped in his tracks, his hand snapping up in a blur to swat at something in front of his head.

There was a blur of motion, the smell of fresh blood as something cut into the giant's hand nearly making Acherai dizzy, and an arrow clattered to the floor at his feet. He turned to Imoen, her bowstring still humming, and his smile was more like the grin of a skull than any human expression. "Wait your turn. I want you _alive_ when I shove one of your own arrows into your eye. Now, where were we, bro... ther...?" he said softly, his enthusiasm fading slightly as he turned back to Acherai.

Who had, in the scant seconds he'd turned away, completely vanished from the antechamber.

"' _Brother.' That's an interesting choice of phrase..."_ the elf's voice murmured, seemingly from everywhere at once. " _I suppose I should have questions for you, but I just can't imagine any information that would make me happier than your blood cooling at my feet..."_

Sarevok grinned, and planted his feet in a defensive stance to prepare for an attack he would never see but could already sense coming. "It is so _nice_ to meet family I have something in common with."

* * *

 

Sephiria sighed, pacing back and forth in the small house that held the exit to the Iron Throne tunnel Tamoko had shown them. "They should be back by now. Something has gone wrong."

"Of course it has. This was a trap," Scar said flatly.

"Possibly, but not one of my making," Tamoko replied gently, sitting cross-legged in the corner of the building, her hands bound behind her back with a rope Imoen had 'legally acquired' from a nearby general store. "I have told you already, Sarevok will kill me if he learns I am still alive. Even if we are able to save him as I hope, he is... he will not forgive me my betrayals. Be they for his own good or not, he will not forgive me. Delivering you to him would earn me nothing but a swift death."

"I don't think it's a trap. I think Imoen did something foolish and now she is in danger!" Sephiria snapped, glaring at the two of them. Scar had not stopped sniping at Tamoko for five seconds, and while Tamoko was more than polite in her constant replies, it turned out that listening to her drone on and on and _on_ about philosophy and her love for Sarevok in her gentle, calm little voice got old _very quickly._

"I think Imoen shall be fine! She is a _good_ girl. Clever with brains, like Boo!" Minsc said.

"Oh gods, she's already dead," Sephiria moaned.

"Silly Seffie, that is the opposite of what I said! You must learn to listen to the wisdom of nature, like me," Minsc said cheerfully, patting her on the back reassuringly. It hurt.

"Right. I have to go help her. Something has gone wrong," Sephiria said. "Scar, Minsc, you take the lead. I still need new armor, so I will have to resign myself to guarding Tamoko, but-"

"She is _not_ coming," Scar said flatly. "Or have you considered, maybe, that if she wanted to backstab us and get back into her old boss's good graces, this would be the time to do it? Assuming she ever really left them."

"Scar, we do not have _time_ to..."

"Your friend the druid still has my holy symbol, and I've no spare. My powers would be distinctly limited, should I seek battle," Tamoko said serenely, ignoring the lawman's accusing gaze. "I am not unskilled with a hammer or mace, but you hardly need more strong arms."

"Minsc has two!" Minsc confirmed.

"... _Fine._ I've no time to argue the point. I will go alone. Minsc, you stay here and if either one of these idiots attempts to harm the other, hit them until they cannot see straight any longer. Scar, give me your armor. I'm muscled enough to fit it."

" _What_? I'm not giving-"

"You'll do it, or I swear I shall tie you up next to her and take it myself!" Sephiria snapped. "And if Imoen is hurt because you delayed me, I shall do far worse!"

"... _Fine._ But it's enchanted and cost me a month's salary, so I'll want it back," he muttered, slipping the chain shirt over his head.

Minsc smiled. "Are you prepared, Boo? It is not so good as charging blindly into battle, but we have been placed in charge of beating our comrades if they stray from the path of justice! Little Sephiria is a _good_ leader."

"Minsc, for Torm's sake, please stop making me doubt my choices here," she murmured.

* * *

 

Jaheira had four broken ribs. She knew this because she had felt each one individually snap, one per second, as Tazok crushed her in his grip. She counted them, letting the snap echo in her ears from within her own body.

It helped her focus.

Jaheira was older than she looked; not many realized it but she was in fact only about two years younger than Gorion, Silvanus guide his soul to the heart. She was, in fact, nearly a half-decade older than her own husband, despite the fact they most certainly didn't look it. And in that time, she had experienced _quite_ a lot. She had been shot, stabbed, burned, and one memorable occasion crucified (it was not a wise way to kill someone who could shift their shape into one too small for the ropes, but slaver guards were often more sadistic than intelligent). Anyone who thought _pain_ would stop her from concentrating was destined for a very permanent lesson in humility.

Tazok grinned toothily, blood running down his shoulders and down his tusks, as he ignored wounds that would have killed a human raining down on his back. "Not as pretty as the last elf I killed. But you'll taste just as sweet."

Jaheira, in reply, opened her mouth and hissed the last words of the spell she'd been murmuring under her breathless screams, and with it released a bolt of steaming poison into the ogre's eyes from three inches away.

The beast screamed, a bellow that seemed to shake the tower like a dragon had landed among them, and hurled his captive away to claw at his own eyes and lash about the room madly. Jaheira had _just_ enough time to wonder if she had made a mistake before she impacted against the stone wall on her right shoulder, the sickening crunch the only thing she could register enough to keep from passing out at the sudden pain as new bones were broken and old wounds made ten times worse. And then Tazok _opened_ his eyes, blood and poison flowing out of them, and he couldn't possibly see her through it all but his gaze was _on her_...

... and an arrow slammed into the side of his head, bouncing off his thick skull and leaving a deep gash along his temple.

He paused. He grinned.

"Elves. And. Their. _Arrows,_ " he said, his voice rumbling like an avalanche.

"Oh my. Should have brought arrows for hunting bears," Coran muttered in dismay, nocking another missile and taking a step back as he released it, the ogre not even bothering to note as it stuck far-too-shallow into his shoulder. Still, Jaheira could not complain... it made the beast turn from her to someone she did not know nor particularly care about. Now she merely had to heal herself, and...

Khalid leaped in front of the total stranger, his shield raised to splinter under the impact of the ogre's fist as it descended to crush the archer's head.

 _Blasted Khalid, why are you so damnably helpful?!_ she thought in dismay. A distraction was not what she needed right now, trying to focus on a spell of healing that was _not_ coming freely to her mind...

"Hold anon, I have potions ready," Dynaheir murmured, kneeling beside her and pressing a vial to her lips. "Drink, and try not to spit any out. 'Tis a grievous wound."

"I... hrk...!" Jaheira murmured, almost choking at the pain of trying to swallow, as if her throat were lined with razors, before the cooling relief of the liquid began to steal away the worst of it. "I... know how to... take a potion. Why are you not helping them?! We must kill this-"

"Wish you, then, for me to incinerate your husband?" Dynaheir asked frankly. "My specialty lies in evocation. Most of the spells I have to harm such a creature would also kill us all in these quarters."

Jaheira coughed again, a few drops of liquid flying from her lips, but strength already flooding into her pained limbs once again. "Then distract him instead, noblewoman, and leave the killing of monsters to professionals."

* * *

 

As seemed to be the case so often of late, Sephiria had no idea what she was doing or why, beyond a vague sense of dread.

She didn't know. She didn't know for sure that anything had gone wrong. Imoen was, despite her attitude, very good at staying unnoticed and even better at talking her way out of trouble. More than one person over the years had started off screaming at her for some petty theft only to end the day as her newest 'lifelong pal.' She could well be blowing Imoen's cover, for all she knew.

And yet there she was, charging down the Iron Throne's escape tunnel, sword in hand and blood pounding in her ears. Because she was absolutely _certain_ that _something_ had gone terribly wrong. She had no idea what it was, or why, but something. Was. Wrong.

There were no torches; rather, the walls and ceiling held occasional crystal orbs that glowed a pale blue in the darkness. She'd have called them lovely, had she been in a better frame of mind; apparently when one had enough money to burn, then one felt that even the lighting in one's emergency escape tunnel had to be higher-class than the peasants. And there, at the end of it all, a seemingly bare patch of wood flanked by two of the glowing lights, and a switch set in the wall next to it. She hit it so hard it cracked, and when the door began to open she slammed her shoulder into it, breaking the mechanism and jamming it open as she passed. 

_Well. Either I am interrupting a disaster or I just **caused** one, so I must move quickly. Imoen, where are you...?_

From the other end of the same floor, a beast much larger than a man roared in pain and rage, and something shattered beneath a blow that sounded like it would have felled a bear.

From the floor blow them, the sound of a lightning strike filled the air, and smoke curled up the staircase. 

_... Right then. She could in fact be at either of those, because both sound like disasters.  I shall assume that the explosion is more likely to be her, just because she seems to have a predilection for fire, and head down._

She dashed for the stairs, taking them two at a time, and almost immediately slammed into Imoen, who was coming up the opposite direction without looking.

Sisters know each other well. 

* * *

 

Sarevok was, for the first time in a long time, having _fun._

The first Bhaalspawn he had killed had been weak. Small, and weak. He had been aware of his heritage, or at least the begging near the end had suggested as much, but he simply hadn’t been given enough of their father’s essence for it to matter.  It had taken Sarevok less than five minutes to hunt, kill, and throw him aside like the garbage he was.  It had been like any other murder, frankly, important only due to the victim’s bloodline and nothing to do with him as a person. A few scant weeks later and he’d already forgotten the weakling’s face. 

Sephiria of Candlekeep, despite the hope he’d had for her, was even worse in a way; she _had_ power, a raw strength in her soul that might have even matched Sarevok’s own. If she embraced it, channeled it, became what she was _meant to be_ , she might have been the first person he’d ever met to face him in open combat with a true chance of victory.  But she fled from her destiny, caged her power within a web of false morality and cowardice.  She had the potential to be a worthy opponent, and yet she had willingly crippled herself before the battle even began.  If he thought about her after her death, it would only be out of pure contempt.   

He would remember Acherai for a long, long time.  He regretted that Bhaalspawn corpses apparently dissolved upon death, because he truly did want to keep the elf’s head as a trophy. 

The elf knew he was no match for Sarevok in an open battle, and so he flitted about the battlefield like a phantom.  When he was even _visible_ , which between spells and potions was only in the moments after launching an attack of his own, there appeared to be seven of him, each one smiling with vicious glee. He would appear, launch a bolt of lightning or a ball of flame from a wand at his belt, and leave Sarevok with half the room to cross and a multitude of false targets to choose from in the brief seconds before he vanished again.  Each spell did little, perhaps, but would it matter if Sarevok never got a true chance to counter? Would he be worn down before he could land the single decisive blow he needed to end this?  

It felt _proper._ Like fighting another aspect of Bhaal’s power made flesh, one foil to his own. If Sarevok was the blood-starved killer, lashing out in power and ferocity, then Acherai was the assassin, the hidden knife in the dark that slid into the victim’s back just when they thought they were safe.  Both were valid aspects of murder. Both had a _right_ to sit the Throne.  But only one could.

**_And it will be me._ **

The Iron Throne tower had once been a guard tower of the city, and it was a heavy, sturdy building made to withstand a siege. However, Rieltar had not been a man dedicated to the military arts; he had made dozens of modifications that had weakened the structure in a dozen tiny ways... most notably, tearing out the majority of the walls on the first floor in order to create the lavish, marble-floored entrance hall that instantly told anyone entering the building that they were walking toward money.  He had, of course, placed a number of marble pillars in place to support the upper floors in their place.

Marble was a very soft stone. The fire and magic that had ripped through this hall twice in as many weeks had already left things somewhat precarious.  A repair crew was scheduled for tomorrow.  

Sarevok, with a grin of purest malice and gold fire gleaming in his eyes, slashed one of them through with a single stroke, laughing openly at the rumbling from the floors above them.  “A pest hiding in the woodwork still needs the building to stand, little brother! Tell me, do you have any magic to survive this?!” 

“ _Hahaha... I assumed you were a madman as soon as I met dear dead ‘Slythey-baby’ at the Silvershield estate, but it’s almost charming to have it confirmed in such a way.  By all means.  Bring your own tower down on your own head!  I’d be happy to watch you crushed to death by your own powerbase. The irony alone will make this trip worthwhile.”_

Sarevok shattered another pillar with a backhanded strike, a large section of the stone ceiling bowing inward over it. “My powerbase, little man, is _me_. Everyone else is so much blood for the grindstone. In the War of Bhaal, it’s every man for himself...” 

“I’d like to challenge that theory.” 

He wasn’t sure if the scream of rage that echoed through the hall was his own, or just from the blood burning behind his eyes, but when he raised his blade to intercept Sephiria’s just seconds before it could take his head off, it was the only thing he could hear. 

* * *

 

Acherai should have been relieved. 

Despite the confidence he kept in his voice, the simple fact was that he was running low on options.  He had spent his time on the road stockpiling potions and magical tools, most of them acquired less-than-honestly and _none_ of them shared with his ‘allies,’ for just such an occasion as this.  He’d burned through the _majority_ of them, and Sarevok showed no signs of slowing down, much less dying. It felt like fighting a living statue, or a demon in human form. Something that wasn’t human, didn’t feel pain, and simply _refused to die_ like a person should.  But at the same time, retreat wasn’t an option; he knew, instinctively, that he had to kill Sarevok as soon as possible or die himself. 

He didn’t know how he knew it, or what this man had _against_ him, or even why he returned the animosity in equal measure, but he couldn’t deny it. The hatred he felt for the monstrous man was _beyond_ anything to do with any meaningless conspiracy or some past trauma. He had known Sarevok Anchev for literal minutes, and he _despised_ the man with a fury that went below conscious thought and left his mind a red haze with only his most cruel impulses burning inside it.  He _needed_ to see him dead. Sephiria adding her considerable muscle to that effort should have been a godsend.

**_... I can just let them fight, then kill the winner when they’re exhausted. It doesn’t matter how they die, so long as they die, after all._ **

**_Heh... a godsend._ **

If Sarevok was inconvenienced at all by the wounds that Acherai had inflicted on him in their own battle, he did not show it.  All his exposed flesh was coated in burns and his armor was little more than glowing-hot scraps of metal sticking to his flesh, yet he moved with surprising grace and terrible power still.  Sephiria was fresh, striking him from ambush, and yet he matched her blow for blow, the scream of metal overwhelming the flames and crumbling architecture easily...

No. No, he wasn’t _matching_ her. When their blades separated and clashed again, the young paladin was pushed almost half an inch backwards, her booted feet sliding along the crumbling marble floor and tearing up small divots as they did.  He was more _burn_ than _man_ at this point and he was still _pushing her back._

 _“_ Focused. Aware. _Still so weak,”_ Sarevok hissed, and Acherai knew he shouldn’t have been able to hear him, but the words seemed to burn through the air far more obviously than the actual fire filling the hall, slamming his blade into her guard again, the marble floor cracking once again under feet as if he was trying to literally hammer her down into the stone.  “You know the truth, but you haven’t _embraced it!”_

“You killed my father. You ruined my life. I do not desire the blood in my veins, and I will _never_ be like you,” she snapped in reply, sliding her blade off his and whipping it at his leg; his heavier blade snapped down to meet it, trying to guide her blade into the ground and hopefully shatter it between the stone floor and the enchanted weapon. **_No. No, he’s going to kill her too quickly. I want them both on the edge of death before one falls. I’ll have to step in..._**

When Sephiria very suddenly stepped into his guard, whipping forward to slam her forehead into his one remaining eye. Acherai blinked a few times, open surprise overwhelming other emotions for a brief moment.    

 _... HA! Well, what do you know? She_ can _be taught._

* * *

 

The giant man screamed in mixed pain and rage, suddenly blind, ripping his weapon from the lock to lash out again. But he was aiming at where he had last _seen_ her, fully expecting her to press her advantage and seeking to force her back until he could clear his vision. Fortunately, she had already taken care to be well outside his range before he could even finish the swing because he didn’t _fully_ understand one important detail: she was not, despite what every instinct in his body must be _screaming,_ here to kill him. 

In part her promise to Tamoko held her back, but she could admit to a pragmatic bent as well. Sarevok was stronger than her, just as fast, and though she loathed to admit it her superior in skill as well. In a straight, one-on-one battle, she was no match for him.  Further, the fire in this room was spreading, and _had_ to be visible to anyone on the street by this point. There would be city watch en route, and they were still her unwanted brother’s puppets. The simple truth was that even if she somehow managed to defeat Sarevok in the new few minutes (and a swordsman of his caliber most likely _could_ repel her for at least that long, even with his vision impaired), the only thing she would earn for her victory was another trip to the Flaming Fist’s goal, and she suspected there would not be another serial killer with a convenient path out for her. 

The goal was not to win.  The goal was to keep him busy until Imoen could get to their allies and get them out. Or failing that, at least as long as she could manage to...

To...

 _“Acherai?!”_ she snapped, her tone somewhere between disbelief and disgust at the sight of her former comrade-in-arms observing the battle from the sidelines, flame and smoke obscuring his features but his build and the golden light in his eyes giving him away instantly.

How? _Why?_ What possible reason could that amoral scum have to be _here_? She didn’t even bother questioning whose side he was on: a few weeks with him was enough to prove he was always on his _own_ side and nobody else’s. But if she was right about their familial connection, and the undiluted _loathing_ that welled up in her soul at the sight of him was proof enough for her, then the flame roaring through the lower floors was almost certainly the result of Sarevok seeking his blood with the same fervor he’d been after hers. 

Acherai might be scum, but ‘irredeemable’ was not a label she wanted to give out.  She had sworn to Tamoko she would fight to redeem Sarevok, and she had meant it.  She could hardly fail to extend that same benefit of the doubt to Acherai; he most likely didn’t even _know_ what they were. The instinct, the blood, ran strong. How could he be expected to fight it if he didn’t fully understand what he was fighting?

She sprinted forward, diving beneath a blind swing from Sarevok that was nonetheless _far_ too accurate for her tastes, and rolled through the shallow flames.  “I don’t know what you’re here for, but we must leave! Now!” 

“Must we?” he asked, his tone oddly gentle and his features shifting and blurred both by heat and by some defensive illusion. The overall impression was _decidedly_ eerie, like she was talking to a ghost, but she didn’t take the time to consider it further.

She reached and grabbed his arm, or at least tried to grab _something;_ she felt cloth in her grasp rather than a solid limb, but that was good enough to drag him out of the building. Through the front door would have to do, Sarevok was between them and the steps, but that was fine; they could escape in the streets well enough, with some luck, and it would lead Sarevok away from Imoen.  All she needed was to...

A short, sharp agony ran down her arm, shocking her out of the plan before it was half-formed.  Eyes wide in disbelief, she looked down at the dagger impaling the wrist of her off-hand, slid expertly into the seam between Scar’s chain shirt and her glove.  

Acherai smiled at her as he backed further into the smoke and seemed to meld with it, and it was a terrible expression indeed.

_“ **Look out behind you.”**_

Cursing under her breath, she spun just as Sarevok reached her, his eye gleaming mixed red and gold, blood and rage boiling within it in equal measure.

* * *

 

Imoen was having a bad time.  Again. Still. 

The building was on fire but it wasn’t her fault.  Sephiria was fighting a godsdamned glowing eyed giant monster-man, and it wasn’t her fault. She had no idea where anyone else was, and obviously that wasn’t her fault.  It was probably Jaheira’s fault, she was always so negative.  She had to hope that Imoen was strong and brave enough to find her and save her.

Something roared from down the hall, and a woman she didn’t know was driven through a wall by the ogre who had tried to eat Imoen not so terribly long ago, sliding limply across the floor to land at Imoen’s feet, groaning painfully.  An arrow slammed into the ogre’s back, and he didn’t even turn to see where it had come as it fell from his thick hide. If it hurt, he didn’t show any signs of it, and Imoen could tell this because he was looking _right_ at her. 

And smiling.

 _Oh, Hells._     

If there was something ‘lucky’ about her current situation, it was that there was really only one option for her, ‘run away,’ and only one direction to go.  She couldn’t go back down the steps because that would be like running into a meat grinder that was on fire, and she couldn’t go forward because there was a hairless grizzly there giving her a smile that she did _not_ like the looks of. So she turned on her heel and ran down the only hall there was.  _This is a real nice place.  Lotsa glass windows. Can a charmin’ waiflike beautiful phantom thief girl survive jumping through one of them an’ falling to the ground?  We’re not_ too _high up. Probably fifteen feet?  But glass is hard an’ so is rock, and I don’t got a big iron moose skull like Seffie. I might die._

Tazok roared behind her, a wordless snarl of rage and what she _hoped_ was bloodlust, and not the normal kind of lust. 

 _On the other hand, I_ definitely _will die if I don’t lose this big jackass._

That thought pretty much set her on-course. The hallway was ending, a big door of some dark expensive wood open a crack and leading into some darkened office.  This place was nothing but boring offices and evil cults, frankly. If she ever decided to get a real job, it wouldn’t be a merchant league.  She burst into the office, smiling at the sight of the nice, big picture window. Probably cost a thousand gold to install.  Whoever worked here was a real good merchant.  She turned in mid-sprint toward the opening, twice as big as she would need to jump through, running toward it...

And at the last second, she fell into a slide at the stone wall _beneath_ the window and kicked off it, very suddenly reversing all that momentum to basically turn herself into a low-to-the-ground missile aimed _right_ at the space between Tazok’s legs as he came up right behind her. 

She didn’t _see_ him hit the window, because her eyes were closed during most of this process (she wasn’t sure it would work, and even if she had been she wouldn’t have wanted to be looking up when Tazok was charging over top of her).  But she heard the glass shatter and the roar of dismay, and as she slid to a halt on her back, she grinned. “Not dead yet!” she cheered. 

“Worry not. With your record, you shall certainly get there eventually.” 

Imoen opened her eyes, her smile widening. “Aunty Jarrie!  How ya doin’?  Ya look good.” 

Jaheira did not dignify this with a verbal response. She did, however, make sure to plant a boot in Imoen’s stomach when stepping over her to head to the shattered window, which really got the point across better anyway.

* * *

 

The people of Baldur’s Gate were, like the people of any city, predisposed to cluster around anything that seemed mildly interesting.  The Iron Throne tower was a large, well-known building placed adjacent to a widely-used thoroughfare; rumors of it being attacked by monsters, invaded by the Flaming Fist, and set afire by Amnish rebels had spread halfway across the city in literal minutes simply from people screaming it out loud and running toward the supposed disaster to see if it was really true. In less than twenty minutes of this, a sizable crowd had gathered around the tower, noticing with the expert opinions of someone who had never been to school that yes, there most definitely was some fire in there. The smoke was a big hint, as they were all well aware.  Nobody had seen a monster yet, mind you, but if one of the rumors was true it was possible they all were, and so they stayed, firmly sharing their opinions (“Yup, yup, most definitely some fire in there. Our Georgie, he once set his house afire, and it was much like this.”) and making it very hard for anyone to get a bucket brigade going or clear the street for the Flaming Fist. 

(To be fair, they weren’t rushing. Any Fist officer still in a position of authority knew whose tower this was and did _not_ want to be the one to annoy Lord Anchev with laws when his home was damaged. Nobody knew what had happened to Angelo, but everyone had _suspicions,_ and most of them involved a lot of blood.) 

It was a confidence unique to those who lived in a large city, following the same routine day in and day out with as little variation as possible. And for it to continue required, and this was _important:_ that they never actually _find_ any monsters. 

A ten-foot ogre, coated in blood, fell from the second floor of the Iron Throne tower and landed heavily in front of the crowd.  He stood up, looked at the gathered civilians, and blinked.

The world seemed to go completely silent for a long, painful second.  It was if time had stopped.   

“Y...you... you are... under arrest...” said the one Flaming Fist recruit who had the unfortunate luck to have gotten to the site of the disturbance in a timely manner. He had been managing traffic down the street, which was once again a busy thoroughfare in the center of the city that would _never_ see any serious threat unless the city had already essentially fallen.   

Tazok reached out, wrapped a giant fist around his helmeted head, and twisted it sharply to one side until a sickening crunch tore through the square, audible for what seemed like miles. 

And the crowd went _wild._

Tazok looked at the sudden riot, pleased at the sight of humans fleeing him and trampling their own defenders in a mad rush to escape in the way only a truly homicidal monster could be. He smiled and turned back toward the tower to find and eat that insufferable little pink thing, to find one of the godsdamned elves staring out the shattered window at him.

“Elves. Elves.  _Elves,”_ he snarled.  “Looking down on me is the only thing you do well, other than die.  Wait there little elf, I’ll be up to finish crushing your...”

He paused. It was mid-morning, and the sun had been out when he’d fallen from the building.  It was not out now.  Had his eyes been somewhat sharper, and his respect for Jaheira firmer, he might have noticed the words she was speaking as she looked down on him.  It was a bit late for that now, though.    

“Gods. Damned. _Elves,_ ” he had time to snarl, just before Jaheira’s spell took effect, and a bolt of lightning as wide around as he was tall ripped down from the skies and slammed down onto him.   

* * *

 

Winski Perorate, retreated to his camp outside the Temple of Bhaal that Sarevok had unearthed, sighed.

He was gazing upon the scrying mirror he had tuned to the tower at all times; Sarevok was a brilliant young man, but he was also an _insane_ young man, as most great conquerors were. It was best to keep track of him; there had been more than one occasion where he had been unable to restrain his violent impulses and required quick and efficient evidence disposal. When you were _born_ of murder, it was to be expected. Winski saw it as merely another sign of the young man’s impending divinity.   

And now he saw the tower where he lived, a fire spreading in the lowest level and his master locked in combat with the ward of Gorion among the flames.  Winski had little doubt that Sarevok would win that battle; he was among the strongest of his kin and the girl had shown no particular signs of embracing her heritage in the few times Winski had been able to observe her since Rieltar’s death.  And of course, whether the Flaming Fist pushing their way through the crowd were in his pocket or no, Sarevok would most certainly slaughter them simply for the glee of it, but this also mattered little. Unless every soldier in the entire city came against him at once, they could hardly _stop_ him. He was a wolf among lambs, and looked more satisfied with himself than he had been in years. 

He was also in the lobby of a burning building, and the fire was reaching down to the foundations.

“Semaj,” he said, rubbing his temples as he spoke to his apprentice, who was sitting cross-legged in the corner of the tent in meditation. “Have you a Dimension Door and a Stoneskin memorized for the day, and some means of recall to the temple?  I would like you to retrieve the master and bring him here before a burning tower falls on him.” 

The younger man opened his dark eyes, and frowned. It was his default expression, Winski had found; he was a gifted mage, and had been a fine apprentice and conspirator to Winski in recent years, but he was not much for personality.  “I refuse. The last few weeks have made it abundantly clear that Lord Sarevok has gone mad, sir. He will most certainly murder me for pulling him from a battle he’s so hungered for.” 

“Which is _why_ you should be certain to cast the Stoneskin upon yourself before leaving.  I have a scroll, if you’ve not memorized it, and I would recommend invisibility as well. Bring him back to the temple and hide until he calms himself.  He’s intelligent enough to work out that the tower’s foundations will be giving out soon. If he dies along with his siblings, his life has been a waste and he accomplished nothing save crushing a fat merchant.  If we save him now, then he still has his chance at godhood.” 

Semaj frowned more deeply. “Sir. Perhaps I should be worrying about _your_ sanity as well.  I know your legacy is important to you, but there must be some other way to build it.” 

Winski chuckled bitterly.  “But that is just the problem, my young friend. There truly isn’t. Go out and kill a dragon every day for a fortnight, and you’ll still never be remembered as half the hero that Elminster or the Blackstaff are.  Become a lich and dominate a kingdom for a thousand years, and all they’ll say at your eventual death is that at least you weren’t as bad as Szass Tam or Larloch.  We live in an age of legends, apprentice, and if you want to carve out a place among them, you need to think very, _very_ big. I would rather die today and be remembered forever, than live another hundred years as a nonentity.”

Semaj considered this. “I’m not sure I would.”

“And that is why you should cast the Stoneskin before you leave. Which should be _now,_ unless you wish me to replace your terror of Sarevok with a far more immediate fear of _me._ ”

Semaj frowned yet more deeply, and Winski had to fight the urge to laugh in his face. 

* * *

 

Sephiria had, as a child, spent some time imagining the Hells.  Not out of any real concern for her eventual place in the afterlife, of course, she had barely been eight years old and all children believe they are immortal. No, it was merely a child’s naturally insatiable curiosity for anything that left them too frightened to sleep with the lantern shuttered, combined with a budding young paladin’s absolute moral certainty that someday she would storm those terrible pits, slay Asmodeus in single combat, free every soul in all nine layers, and presumably marry someone (all the heroes in the stories married a princess at the end, but princesses were terribly boring so she hadn’t really pondered the details on the assumption someone else would take care of all that when she eventually got there).  Looking back on those childish fantasies as an adult, however, she felt a small surge of hatred for her younger self over them.

Because she had pictured the Hells as being quite a lot like this.

The fire had spread to the level beneath them, and between that damage and the sheer brutality of the battle, the floor was shattering beneath their feet with every step.  There were already a dozen places she could see through the marble to the inferno beneath them, a maze of barrels, crates, and casks all ablaze; burning pools where liquor barrels had burst surrounding bonfires that had once been bolts of expensive cloth.  Smoke was flooding up through the floor like a solid black wall, making it nigh-impossible to see or breathe, much less fight. 

And through it all, Sarevok strode ever at her heels, his one eye burning red-gold, the blood flowing from it seeming to boil where it touched his skin.  It was impossible: he had taken ten times the wounds she had, made no effort at all to avoid the flames licking every wooden surface or the clouds of toxic smoke. And yet he moved with the same unbreakable force that she had faced on the day of Rieltar’s death, as if all the pain flowed off him harmlessly... or perhaps more accurately, as if the fire without simply couldn’t burn hot enough to match the fire within.

**_This is what the blood of Bhaal can mean. Do you regret denying your true self, yet?  It’s never too late..._  **

She hissed in frustration, something behind her eyes trying to break her mind while Sarevok tried to break her body.  She knew which one was more likely to succeed, but she wasn’t _happy_ about either one, certainly...

“ _This has to be hard on you both with all those wounds.  Does the smoke make them burn?”_

And then there was _him._

Acherai had never been a good person. But he had always been, at the least, pragmatic.  They had never liked each other, and they had never worked particularly well together, but he had not struck her as the sort to kill his only ally in the middle of a fight for his life. This building was rapidly becoming a deathtrap. There was likely to be an army outside if any of them managed to escape alive, and not one that had any interest in helping any of them other than Sarevok.  They needed to be _running_ , not fighting this monster. 

Acherai was a demonstrably bad person, but he was not one that would willingly end his own life in order to kill an enemy. Something was very, very wrong with him, and she was alone here. 

“You scuttle in the shadows like a spider, little brother. You remind me of Rieltar!” Sarevok said, his blade slamming against Sephiria’s again, striking a burr in the steel as a horrible grin twisted his face, looking practically demonic in the flames. “Do you think this _nothing_ will stand in my way?  She’s _barely worth killing.”_

“ _Liar. You want her dead so badly it **screams** to me...”  _Acherai said, the smoke shifting slightly with his passage as he picked his way around the room, never staying still long enough for anyone’s eyes to focus on him, not that either of the clashing warriors could spare the time or attention.  “ _This is your only chance. It’s all falling apart on you now. Do you think your reputation in this city can survive **again**? You may as well just lie down and die right now. There’s no future for you.” _

“I only need one future.  The one I rip from your beating hearts,” Sarevok said, grinning viciously as his blade slammed the guarding Sephiria back another five paces, forcing her to leap backward over a fallen pillar, magical fire still clawing at the stone where it lay, ripped into chunks from Sarevok’s blows.  He charged forward, the weight of his steps collapsing yet more of the floor beneath him and a demon’s smirk on his burned features...

And without stopping his motion even slightly, without even looking, he ripped a jagged chunk of red-hot marble from the crushed stone with his bare hand, and hurled it like a javelin with superhuman power.

Acherai blinked in shock, a chill that burned far more than any flame rolling down his entire body.  No pain, just _cold_ so deep he could barely understand it, surely it couldn’t be possible in this hell, but...

But...

He looked down, and it was like seeing someone else’s dreams as his mind struggled to acknowledge the shard of burning shrapnel buried in his stomach, so deeply embedded barely an inch of it could still be seen. 

And then, slowly, he smiled. 

**_Ignore it.  The pain is nothing. Think of Davaeorn and Nimbul. You can rip the life from him to heal yourself. The power is a part of you, beyond any petty magecraft or child’s prayer.  In the bone, in the blood, use it, USE IT or you’ll DIE HERE.  BECOME DEATH, THERE IS NO HIGHER PURPOSE FOR YOU!_ **

He smiled like a hungry shark as his hand burst into a pale blue light that seemed to draw the heat from the flames raging around them. The grin was matched on Sarevok’s face as he charged, his blade reflecting the ghostly light, finally facing the final battle he had sought for so long...

“ _I. Think. Not.”_

Sephiria leaped between them, her blade slamming down into the floor like the hammer of an avenging god, the stolen Fist blade finally shattering under far more abuse than any sword deserved... and the long-suffering floor of the Iron Throne entrance hall joined it.  With a sickening crunch that echoed over half the city, wood and stone supports finally gave in, sending three-quarters of the entrance hall simply vanishing into the roaring flames and sending up a hideous cloud of ash and embers that flooded what remained of the opulent chamber, forcing all three clashing godchildren to leap backwards, scrambling for the few platforms that still stood among the flames, clinging to the edges of the room... and beginning to crumble.  

“ _What have you done?!”_ Acherai and Sarevok screamed in unison, and the fury had colored their tones so much that Sephiria could barely tell them apart. 

Sephiria ran a bloodied hand across her face, smearing soot and sweat across her face. “If one of us dies here, _all_ of us die here. Are you willing to kill yourself for this ridiculous divine vendetta?  I’ll not let brother kill brother before my eyes while I can stop it.”

 **“** I could have finished him, you useless weakling!” Acherai snarled, falling to his knees and pressing a hand to his bleeding stomach. “It could all have been over right here!  How _dare_ you...” 

She held up her hand, blood still flowing freely from a cut just barely shy of the artery.  Had the dagger plunged in an inch further in either direction, she would have bled out by now. “I feel as if you owe me, at this point. Please, _shut up_ , and I may consider tending that wound for you.” 

Sarevok took several deep, panting breaths, like a beast whose prey had just escaped it, but who was too exhausted to take on a new chase.  “You... hahahaha... you. You. You. _YOU._ You could have been the strongest of us if you’d just answer the call of the father.  But as it is, you’re just a child who thinks she can change the course of a river by standing in the current and preaching to it.  Killing you means nothing to the war for our father’s Throne... no. No. it will be for my pleasure alone.  You’re a naïve brat, a child unworthy of your blood... but I cannot truly be _happy_ until I see your corpse cooling at my feet.”

“Well. You will be unhappy for some while to come, I think.”

His smile was mad, and he bunched his legs under him as if he planned to leap across the flames to skewer her then and there... when circle of blue light carved itself out of the air next to him, and a man in robes stepped forward onto the wrecked floor that held him aloft, his face set in a nervous frown. “M-milord. This building is structurally unsound, and my master...”

Sarevok swung his blade without looking, the weapon bouncing into the new arrival’s neck and bouncing off as if he had slammed it into a stone wall, as the mage struggled not to fall from his feet.  “... Bah. Mages. I suppose we’d fall if I took the time to cut through your defenses, so I’ll go speak to the old man.  Winski has _much_ to answer for in presuming to send you, insect.”

“Y-y-y-yes, milord...”

He turned to the other two, and smirked. “If you survive, seek me out. There is a temple to my glory, buried beneath this city. Let your blood guide you to it, and face me.  As long as I live, neither of you will ever find peace.  I will hound you to your death, ensure you can never live another day in happiness. I will kill, and kill, and kill until everyone you know and love is rust on my sword.  You know I’m not lying.

“ ** _Brother and sister, born in darkness... seek me among the blood of our siblings who were too weak to see this day. I await you where it all began.”_**

He stepped into the portal beside the terrified mage and was gone.

Sephiria would have found it _far_ more dramatic if the ceiling above her hadn’t chosen that moment to begin cracking, and a _disturbingly_ large chunk of the second floor crashed down...     


	25. Chapter Twenty-four

Acherai opened his eyes, and regretted it. 

“Oh… oh that is unpleasant…” he muttered, seemingly every inch of his body reacting to the words with dizzying agony, his last memories before losing consciousness being of blood and fire.

And the only thing he could see was Sephiria’s face hovering over him in the dim firelight, which was arguably _worse_. 

“You and I,” she said softly, “need to talk.”

“The tower. Sarevok. What happened?” he whispered, every word an effort. 

“He escaped… his reputation is destroyed, of course.  Consorting with ogres and murdering guardsmen is more than a donation to the city can cover, and he doesn’t precisely have a public relations department left to handle it for him.  A bounty has been placed on his head, but… he’s vanished. He’s been warded against divinations, apparently, and where he might have fled is a mystery. Except to us,” she said calmly. “And of course you did not _ask,_ but I have not made contact with any of my party, or yours. The streets are crawling with guardsmen, and I am still a fugitive. I couldn’t even get down the street to listen to the crier before I found a patrol.  If we try to get back to the… ruins now, we’ll be caught in a heartbeat.” 

Acherai chuckled. “Wouldn’t go… even if I cared about Coran and Shar-teel.  Not going… to fight that monster again any time soon.  So… how did you get us out… if things are that bad?”

Sephiria winced.         

**_Four hours earlier…_ **

Acherai watched the ceiling falling, the support beams finally giving in to the loss of the basement and the fire ripping them apart. It made sense, he supposed; the building had originally been a fortress tower, but the Iron Throne had ripped out so much of the original structure to replace it with luxury materials that it could hardly be expected to stand up to what the battle had done to it.

He also supposed, vaguely, that he should be more upset by the sight, considering it likely meant he was about to die.

“I can’t reach you!” Sephiria shouted, roaring to be heard over the crumbling masonry crashing down into the basement.  “Can you stand?!”

He chuckled, unable to maintain the bloodlust he had been feeling so recently; possibly because he was running low on blood of his own, but honestly he just felt _tired._ Like some greater force had been lending power to his muscles, and now it had chosen to abandon him. He felt like he was trying to think through a layer of wool around his brain.  Though… well. That might have been the gaping gut wound.  _Hehehehehe… I’m in a burning building and I’m going to die of blood loss?  That’s probably irony…_

“Torm, protect your very stupid servant as she prepares to make a poor decision,” Sephiria muttered, looking at elf as his eyes began to drift shut. He was losing consciousness, probably delirious and there was not a lot of floor left to reach him with. Unless she could make a twenty-foot leap from a standing start, she would have to leave him to die.  And that was, for _some_ reason, not acceptable in her mind, presumably because she was a _gods-damned idiot,_ so…

Wait. 

There was, after all, something _below_ the basement, wasn’t there? And the tower was collapsing anyway, and after all that weight had fallen it had to be ready to go, sooooo…

She leaped down into the flames, trusting that some combination of divine grace, enchanted armor, and blind luck would keep her alive long enough to do this, and slammed her blade into the fire-ravaged and cracked basement floor below Acherai’s perch. 

“W-what are yoUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAH…” he had time to scream before the floor gave way, sending the two adventurers crashing down among a cloud of sparks, dust, and rubble, into the sewers. 

What they landed in did not bear mentioning, but it certainly did put the fire out.

**_The Present…_ **

“It certainly wasn’t undignified, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sephiria said primly. “The key thing I got us to the docks, and found a warehouse that had been closed off.  And a barrel of clean water that was sorely needed. Do not ask how or why.”

“Wh-”

“ _I_ am the one asking the questions here, thank you!” she said, cutting him off very deliberately.  “As you see, I have ensure you’ve received enough healing to keep you alive… but not enough to be a threat. So you are going to answer me, if you want to be healed.”

He grinned, despite the pain.  “You’ll heal me… eventually.  You’re not the sort… to let someone die in agony while you watch…”

“I’ve grown since we last met. In ways I do not truly appreciate,” she said, softly. “Do you want to risk your life on that assessment?”

“… Heh. Maybe you… have grown,” he whispered. “Fine. If you promise to… spare my life... I’ll answer anything I can. I at least know you won’t lie.”  

“How much do you _know_ about Sarevok? Really?” she asked.

“Hm. He… was behind… all of this. Tried to have Entar Silvershield killed, was at least mostly behind… the plan to start the war with Amn.  He was the one who wanted you dead… not sure why. But he has some connection… to the cult that I’ve been hunting.  I don’t know what it is, but he needs to die for it, clearly,” he said.  “… And he’s not human. I don’t know what he is. But that was… that was not a human.”     

She sighed. “So you don’t know anything, then. I was afraid of that. Well… people kept me in the dark most of my life, and it never did any good, so I’ll just say it. Sarevok is a demigod, a child of the dead god Bhaal, sired before he was killed in the Time of Troubles, and...” 

“And… so am I. So are _we_ ,” Acherai finished. “Heh… interesting.”

“… Oh. Yes. Um… I wasn’t expecting you to realize that part. Or take it well,” Sephiria said, blinking in confusion.

“Well… after seeing him in person… yes, it makes sense. That does explain a great deal… where our powers came from, and what the cult was really doing with those children… hehehehe… yes, it all fits… some kind of ritual to revive Bhaal, that’s what it was all along…” he said with a grin. “Half-god. I’m _half-god_. Oh, this is _intriguing.”_

“Intriguing?” she asked, arced eyebrow. “Is that what you call being the child of the god of _murder_? Not even you could be happy with _that_ heritage, oh pragmatic one.”

“I… well, no. Not the god in particular. But… _a god_. Viconia was right. There’s… potential here. We could learn to tap it.”

“Like Sarevok?”

“ _Yes,_ like Sarevok!” he hissed. “You saw him. What he is. What he can do. He’ll kill us both if we… we don’t have an edge. We have to even that… playing field.” 

“You keep saying ‘we.’ Why do you assume I will help you?”

“Because you want to _live,_ don’t you? And Sarevok… your father. He’s the one who killed… your father. He must be. You wouldn’t… wouldn’t care so much otherwise,” Acherai said with pained grin that did not quite reach his eyes.  “Think about it. With his power… even if we can access our divine strength. It would probably… probably take both of us to face him.”

“I meant,” she said, letting a hint of steel slip into her tone, “why do you think I would trust you to fight at my side after you tried to kill me?” 

His smile vanished to be replaced by a look of absolute unbending dread at the realization he was alone and wounded in the dark with someone he had recently made an enemy of, and Sephiria had to admit that even _she_ enjoyed the sight a little bit.

* * *

 

  “Why is it that every time we do anything in this town, we end up as fugitives?” Imoen muttered, looking out the window of their little safehouse, which would _not_ be safe if anyone discovered it had a tunnel to the Iron Throne tower in the basement, which Imoen did _not_ understand because it connected to the second floor of the tower!  Jaheira had said something about it going up a slope inside the city walls along a hollowed out blah blah _blah,_ and Imoen had stopped paying attention.

“Why is it that every time you do anything in this town, you _burn it down_?!” Scar hissed. “In and out! Looking for intelligence!  You were not. Supposed. To _burn the tower down!_ ” 

“They burned down the Undercellars. And the Seven Suns,” Tamoko said mildly, still sitting in a position of serene meditation. “I honestly think that entering a building is simply a death sentence for this group.”

Scar wheeled on her, wrath flashing in his eyes. “ _You_ burned down the Undercellars. And a _lot_ of innocent people died there, murderess, so…”

Shar-teel laughed. “Well, a lot of _people_ , anyway. Not sure about innocent.” 

“And _who is this, anyway?!”_ he snapped, gesturing at the two new strays that they’d apparently picked up.

“Ah, well. My name is Coran, and this is my frie… … … associate, Shar-teel.  We were in the tower on… perfectly legal business, and… we seem to have lost our commander in the chaos just like you fine folks.” 

“They helped us fight an ogre!” Imoen chirped. “And I like the scary one’s tattoo. I think I’d look good with a tattoo, y’know? Really show off my _wild_ side. Seffie says I don’t have one, but what would she know? Stick. In. The. Mud.”

“Damn right, kid. Next time that bastard tells you that you can’t do something, you cut his balls off and make him eat them,” Shar-teel cheered. 

“Seffie is actually a girl.”

“… Eh. So grab a random man and do it to him, then. It’s all good.” 

Imoen blinked. “I don’t want a tattoo anymore.”

“Coward.”

“Oh, gods. Oh, merciful gods, I joined a group of maniacs. I might as well have signed up with the Zhents,” Scar murmured, holding his head in his hands. “You lost Sephiria… _again._ You burned down one of the biggest buildings in the city.  Tell me you at least accomplished _something_. Tell me this wasn’t a complete waste of all our time.”

Jaheira sighed, looking up from Khalid’s wounds as she tried to bandage what her magic had been unable to fully heal this day. “Sarevok is exposed. A crowd of people saw a rampaging ogre emerge from the Iron Throne tower… which, of course, is now a gutted flaming ruin.  It wasn’t the battle we’d hoped to fight, but we can hardly say it did not produce results… assuming Sephiria has survived.” 

“Hey! She might be big, and doofy, and when we find her again I’m pretty sure I’m gonna try to find a way to blame her for starting that fire because I was in the room when the creepy elf set it and I don’t want to get blamed m’self, but she’s hardier than a cockroach!  If anyone could get out of that mess, it would be her,” Imoen protested. “We just gotta find her, is all, and we’ve already done that once. Right, Minsc?”

“Fair Dynaheir has been wounded by the fangs of ogres while Minsc was left behind to watch small guardsmen and evil priestesses, when he _should_ have been watching his witch… first the vile nasty gnolls, and now this… Minsc is a failure… when we return to Rasheman, Minsc shall fall upon his sword at the doors of the Ice Dragon Berserker Lodge in shame…” Minsc said, rocking back and forth in the corner.

“Spirits and gods, Minsc, I have but a few bruises. I have told you time and again you must not take these things so seriously,” Dynaheir said with a sigh, holding Boo so he did not get tears of undying shame upon him.

“… Well then. I need to get out of here before I kill one of these mouthy idiots, I think, so it’s time to part ways,” Shar-teel said, standing up. “Elf!  Go scout us out a way back to the inn past the guard patrols. We need to report back to the others, get our fee, and get out of this city.”     

“Not to argue with you, my dear, but first we should probably try to find Acherai, and we can assume if he lives he’ll be with their Sephiria,” Coran murmured, not sounding particularly enthused. “Duke Silvershield seemed to actually be fond of him, and if we don’t get paid because he’s not around, Kagain is going to kill someone. Probably me.”

“I don’t have a problem with that.”

“Wait. Wait. _Wait,_ ” Scar, who had been pondering the disaster that was his life, said slowly. “You… you two are working for a _Grand Duke._ ” 

“Eh? Ah, yes, my good man! We are in fact-“ Coran began.

“So we are sitting in a _hovel_ less than a mile from the _scene of the crime of the century,_ rather than coordinating with one of the city’s leaders for… _what reason?”_ he snapped, raising an angry hand to cut the elf off.

“… … … Well, mostly I got hit in the head a few times by that ogre, and I confess I may not have thought all of this through.” 

“I hate my life and everyone in it,” Scar muttered. 

Jaheira, who could empathize with the sentiment after nearly eight weeks around Imoen, did _not_ pat him on the back in solidarity. But only because she did not really like him.     

* * *

 

Acherai tried to feel at his belt for a dagger, but to his dismay found his right hand would not move, and his left found only an empty sheathe. _Dammit, dammit, dammit, she thought to disarm me. Do I even have any spells left for the day?  Could I cast them with one hand if I did?  Who am I kidding, I can barely lift the hand that **does** move! Oh gods, she’s going to… _

_To…_

_… It’s Sephiria._

“So what will the sermon be?” he murmured. “You’re not the type… to murder someone in cold blood. We both know it.” 

“I _wasn’t_ , certainly, but these days, who knows?  A great deal has changed, Acherai.  ‘Sephiria of Candlekeep’ has become ‘Sephiria, Child of Bhaal.’ I can… _hear_ it whispering in my mind. It tells me the power to be found in spilling your blood is beyond my imagination,” she said, her tone soft and yet somehow cold. “And when I don’t respond to that, it tells me of your crimes. Your murders. Destroying you is the right thing to do isn’t it?  You have taken lives that did _not_ deserve it. It would be justice to cut you down here.”

He did not quite roll his eyes. “So _that’s_ the argument. That it is an… inherently dangerous power that will… turn us against each other? Perhaps you missed it, but we… _already_ don’t get along. I am not… planning to stay in stabbing range after we kill Sarevok. You will go your way, and I mine, and I would be quite happy never seeing you again.”

“Would it let you? Would _Bhaal_ let you?” she asked, her tone mild. 

He smiled. “I don’t need to kill you. You’re a human and I’m an elf.  We might… look the same age. But I’ll look exactly the same as I do now… long after you’re dust. If I want you dead, I can… just wait.  You can live out your life. Happy?”

“Then why did you try to kill me in the tower?” she asked softly. “Did you _want_ to kill Sarevok? Or did you _need_ to?”

“We both _need_ to kill Sarevok. He’s after our blood, remember? And he isn’t going to _stop._ You saw him. He… hahaha, of course, that’s it. He thinks killing us will make him a god. If he’s the last… one standing, he gets to be the new Bhaal,” he whispered. “You see? That should be… your worst nightmare. A new god of murder?”   

“And what. About. _Me?_ ” she snapped, holding her bared arm above his head to show the bloody bandage wrapped around it. “The topic you keep glossing over. I came into a losing battle, _on your side,_ and you attacked me without reason or hesitation. Can you still look me in the eye and claim you are _in control,_ Acherai?”

He winced, turning away from the sight. “I… didn’t have a choice. You were trying to run. I didn’t want to… to let him regroup. I had to drag things out, try to keep him in… in the trap. And you…”   

“ _NO!”_ she snapped, with more genuine anger than he had _ever_ heard in her voice. “Look. Me in. The _eye_.  And _say it._ ” 

He turned his head. He looked her in the eye.  And he thought: _Of course I am in control. I didn’t have a name for it, but I knew there was something. Some power. Some kind of presence inside me. And I took **control.** I’m not some frightened little knightling raised in a library. I know darkness. I walked in it all my life, you petulant, moralizing **brat**. I found the darkness within and I took control! I’m not like you, you **child.** I see the power of my blood and I don’t surrender, I **exploit** it. And when you’re **dust in your grave,** I will be walking among the **gods,** you little **nothing.**_

He didn’t say one word of it out loud. 

Because even as he thought it, even as the _concepts_ raced through his mind, he could feel how _wrong_ they were.  

_I thought I hadn’t surrendered. I thought I was in control. I thought I was on the verge of the greatest victory of my life._

_And it ended with me trying to fanatically kill a man I don’t even know, simply because I wanted to, while trapped in a burning building.  I didn’t even feel the flames._

“I wasn’t in control. I had tamed nothing. I thought what Bhaal _wanted_ me to think. Whatever would lead me to kill Sarevok or die trying,” he said, his tone thoughtful and almost disturbingly soft, his face going even more pale than normal as it fell into a mask of dread. Very much the tone and expression of a man standing at the edge of a roof and realizing he has no _real_ reason not to jump.

Sephiria smiled, but there was more sadness than anything in her eyes. “And now, I think we can _finally_ have a real discussion. So tell me… who _are_ you?”

Raising his good hand to his brow as if literally trying to hold his head together, and slowly closed his eyes. “Who, indeed…?”

* * *

 

“You _lost him?!_ ” Viconia snarled. “Oh _my,_ that was foolish. You are already a male daarthir, and therefore the lowest form of life on this world, and now you have managed to misplace my most useful acquisition on the surface. If still served the Tyrant Poisoner, you would already be spider food.” 

“What the drow said,” Entar said, less open emotion in his tone but somehow _just as much_ threat behind the words as he sat up in his bed. “Though I confess I’m a bit fuzzier on which ‘him’ I mean, considering you somehow managed to have Sarevok in your sights and _lost him too._ ” 

“We couldn’t reach them, I fear, as a result of the ogre.  The tower was a… bit of a snafu, sir,” Coran said with a shrug.  “On the plus side, we can safely say Sarevok’s activities are exposed as a result of the same ogre.  And the lovely and gifted young druidess …”

“Married, to a man who is quite gifted at swordplay,” Jaheira snapped.

“I l-love you too, darling,” Khalid said demurely. 

“… and the pleasant lady with her pleasant husband quite effectively made sure _everyone_ saw it. That was a most impressive bolt of lightning to come down out of a sunny sky in the middle of the morning. There’s nobody in the city who hasn’t heard about the Iron Throne’s secret goblinoid army by now.” 

“At least something good came out of this disaster, then.  But Sarevok is still alive, still has combat resources, and is therefore still a threat. And I’ve lost my new right hand for dealing with situations exactly like that. We’ll need to move quickly and decisively before we end up dealing with more assassins in bedchambers,” Entar murmured. “You there, the watchman.  You were high in Duke Eltan’s counsel, were you not?”

“I was his second-in-command, milord. We actually had the honor of meeting once, when I was providing security for last winter’s ball on the occasion of Lord Belt’s niece marrying,” Scar said, bowing deeply.

“Suck-up,” Imoen muttered.  

“Well, congratulations on your promotion, young man. As Duke Eltan is no more, I am officially declaring you the new head of the Flaming Fist company, based solely on the fact there are no other candidates and nobody currently alive has the authority to tell me I _can’t._ Skie, please prepare messages for delivery to Belt and Jannath, that should make it official enough.”

“Daddyyyyyyy! Make the servants do i-”

“There are only two servants left, and they cannot read or write. And you are still in a _lot_ of trouble for letting a con-artist into the house over some ridiculous romantic fantasy.”

“It was _true love,”_ Skie muttered under her breath, leaving the room to, for perhaps the first time that day, do something helpful. 

“Now then, commander. Your first duty is to get your group in order.  I suspect you’ll be weeding out corruption for a good long while, so for the moment please see my wife about acquiring a letter of writ from my estate. Any funds you need to acquire additional personnel or bribe existing ones are yours for the asking. I want the Fist _purified._ ” Entar snarled. “And you, druid. Are you the one running this… group?” 

Jaheira shrugged. “I feel more like a den mother to a child’s daycare most days, but for the moment, yes. Our actual leader was lost with your Acherai. We know not what happened to either of them, or if they even still live.”

“They’re still alive,” Imoen and Viconia said in perfect unison, before looking slightly annoyed they agreed with each other.

“Seffie is too hard-headed to die. And she would definitely drag out anyone else she found, even that creepy elf,” Imoen clarified.

“Acherai is… special. I don’t know the details, but there’s more to him than meets the eye. He has a destiny, and I plan to steward it,” Viconia said.

Tamoko, standing to the back of the room and very agreeably ignoring the fact Minsc had been appointed to crush her skull if she tried to flee, said, “You will find that an extremely dangerous hobby. His bloodline tends to attract women like you, but it also tends to kill them quite horribly.”

“I don’t know who you are or why you think you have permission to speak to me, but please don’t insinuate I’m anything like you or any other ‘woman.’  Drow survive.” 

Tamoko smiled slightly.  “I speak not a threat, but a warning, as someone who knew a young woman who thought much the same regarding Sarevok himself.  I sometimes wonder if the fire left anything of her, but of course nobody could get down there to check…” 

 Jaheira coughed lightly. “Yes, well, before we all remember we hate each other, we as a… pair of loosely connected groups of violent idiots have two goals. Find our missing members to make certain they are safe, and find Sarevok to make certain he is not.  If the high lord could be so kind as to remove us from the city’s most-wanted lists, that we may proceed with both?”

Entar smirked. “I can’t deny there’s a certain joy to the idea of getting these people out of my rooms. The dwarf smells, the wizard smells worse, and if one of the maids sees the drow I shall have riot on my hands. However, getting you out of the Flaming Fist’s wanted records will not be easy, because at the moment they have lost two commanders in as many weeks and we have no idea how many are corrupt. Until we manage to get them under the city’s control again, even I can’t risk meeting alone with any of the officers. I could end up with another dagger in my ribs before they even serve tea.”

“… Very well. Sir Scar, you go do as you wish with your gang of hooligans! I want to be able to walk the damned city streets again, so I can walk to the gates, find a nice forest, and never return to this cesspit,” Jaheira snapped.

“Yes, because I was waiting for your approval,” Scar muttered.

“You, wizard! You have been doing nothing for what I can only assume is your entire life? I will require a few messages sent to associates, and quickly. You will aid me,” she continued, pointing at Edwin, who had taken up a position just outside the room, staring intently at Dynaheir through the cracked-open door and muttering to himself. He apparently didn’t think anyone had noticed. “I would ask our own mage to do it, but I actually respect her ability and would prefer she get some rest to study her spells properly. Besides, you seem the sort who needs a distracting task to keep him from doing something stupid.”     

“If I liked tall women, you would be a _catch,_ ” Kagain said.

“Third, Imoen!  Go downstairs and buy us another room? This one is damnably crowded with unsavory sorts.” 

“Yes, mom.”

“ _No backtalk,_ child. And finally… you, the elf that won't stop staring at women like a vulture. I don't know your name. Kiran?”

“Close enough.”

“You are a thief, no? And nobody will be looking for you if you change out of that ridiculous uniform.  So get out on the streets and _find them._ Search close to the tower, places they could have reached without being caught. They were near the bottom floor, the center of the blaze, no? They may be wounded, take potions. I’ll not lose Gorion’s child _again_. This would be at least the third time, and it’s beginning to get humiliating.” 

“I-i-it hasn’t gone smoothly,” Khalid admitted.   

Entar blinked, looking back and forth between the two half-elves for a few seconds before saying, slowly, “And you two are _married_?” 

“L-l-love is a mysterious th-thing.” 

* * *

 

_My oldest memory is my mother being gutted while I watched. I woke up in an iron cage and saw my brothers and sisters murdered one by one, unable to do anything but wait for my turn. I was helpless. I think more than anything, that’s what I hated about it.  Not the death and pain all around me, not the fear, not even losing my mother. None of it impacted me so much as the feeling that there was nothing I could do. That my life had been completely taken over by the whims of another. I was too young to put it into words, maybe, but that was when I learned: There is nothing, **nothing,** in this world that feels worse than the idea that you have no say in your own future.  _

_I survived more by luck than anything else, and I ran.  I ran for my life. It’s a blur, really… I hid on caravans, stealing food and clinging to the bottom of wagons, not even caring where we were going. I just knew I needed to get as far away from that bloody pit as I could.  I ended up in Scornubel, because all caravans do eventually. It was no place for a child, but I wasn’t really a child anymore. I’d learned something important. An understanding that sets children apart from adults:   There are really only two types of people in the world. There are the ones who are in control, who have **power,** and there are the victims. So I decided, early on, that I would not ever, **ever** , be the latter again.  _

_It’s not that hard to find power, really.  It’s everywhere, if you just have the drive.  All you need to do is look at everyone around you as a stepping-stone on your path to it, and treat them accordingly.  Enemies, obviously, you overcome them and grow stronger and wiser from the encounter, but that’s really only scratching the surface.  Most people don’t like to admit it, but **everyone** you meet is only a part of your life so long as they benefit you. Shallow? Evil? Maybe on the surface, but stop to think about it a little more._

_If a friend is no longer amusing to spend time with, you drift apart._

_If a lover no longer satisfies you, you leave them and find another who better suits you._

_If a teacher can no longer help you improve, you graduate and find one more skilled._

_It’s not some twisted viewpoint. It’s a natural part of life that happens to everyone. All sentient beings instinctively surround ourselves with people who benefit us in some way. Emotionally, financially, sexually, it doesn’t matter: we want people who give us something, and we shun those who have no value. Evil? Evil is just selfishness, and at the core selfishness is all we **are**. And once you can leave the moral high ground for a moment, look at your life with open eyes, and admit this simple truth to yourself… that’s when you’re free. _

_So I stole. And I lied. And I killed. And I betrayed.  I pulled in close to those who could give me what I wanted, and I used them until they had no further value to me. And then I was just gone.  Call me a monster if you like, but I did nothing that wasn’t done by everyone around me.  I just did it consciously, with purpose, instead of flailing through life half-blind.  Show me someone who calls me evil for that, and I’ll show you a hypocrite. I knew who I was, and I was always, **always** in control… I thought._

_In the blood.  Buried so deep in… in whatever the gods leave us where we’re born that I never felt it for most of my idiot life. How much has it pushed me? How much of what I’ve done in my life has been my choice? I can’t know for sure._

_I’ve always done what would benefit me, first and foremost. I’ve always been the only one I can trust to look out for myself. And now I can’t even trust that. Because some dead human god forced itself on my mother, I can never trust my own thoughts again? Never shed a drop of blood without wondering if it’s pushing me closer to slavery or self-destruction?_

**_And isn’t that worth it? You may die, certainly. But isn’t that a risk worth taking for the power offered? You’ve tasted the barest shred of it, and it let you face Sarevok on even footing. He is older than you, stronger, deeper in the favor of the Father. But you challenged him. You aren’t ready yet, but you have potential, boy. Are you going to squander it because you fear the price?  You could be the LAST. Slit the girl’s throat in her sleep, feed on her, and you’ll be stronger yet. With that power, you could kill Sarevok too, you see? You will be the greatest of your kin. The one to sit the Throne…_ **

_LIKE._

_HELL._

_… **You’re weak. Like her. Like the tiny, meaningless little specks that have no purpose to feed the fire of-**_

_SILENCE._

_Of course I want the power! It is intoxicating! The potential locked away in my blood is so phenomenal I can taste it on every breath!  To reign over this world, to be a GOD, who wouldn’t want such a thing? But I will never, **never** allow another to control me. My destiny is my own, my will is my own, and if Bhaal thinks he can choose either one for me, I will see the very **idea** of him wiped off the face of Toril!  So. Be. SILENT.  If I’m to stand in the heavens, it will be on my own terms, not as your pawn.  I will **die** before I let any god, living or dead, dictate terms to **me.**_

_… **Yes. You will.**_

* * *

****

Acherai opened his eyes for what felt like the first time in hours, though Sephiria knew it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.  She thought, maybe, she had seen something gold flash behind his eyes, but when they fully opened she saw nothing in his gaze but a cold, unflinching hate so deep it was difficult to even meet his eyes.

“Who am I?” he whispered. “I’m in a _very bad_ mood. That’s what happens when you realize you need to find some way to kill a god who’s already dead. So, sister dear, how do you want to get started on that?” 


	26. Chapter Twenty-five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And with this, the AO3 version of the story is finally caught up. A moment of smug glee in between a life of being tired. ^_^

**Chapter Twenty-five**

**(*)**

Sephiria blinked. “Well…. I mean, I know how you feel…” 

Acherai shook his head.  “Oh, I highly doubt that. You’re a paladin, you signed your free will away years ago.  I, on the other hand, refuse to give my life as some god’s puppet, or… or worse, his _magical power source._ Used up and thrown away? Oh, no, no _no._ Not me, not _ever._ So we’re going to stop Sarevok. I’ll even follow your lead, since I think that if possible we’d be better off talking him down, at least until we learn everything he knows about Bhaal and his cults. And then… we find some way to destroy even the _memory_ of that _thing_ inside us. I enjoy the power, but losing it would be an acceptable price for making sure that ‘Father’ never darkens my doorstep ever again _._ Acceptable?”

The young paladin sighed, rubbing her temples.  “I don’t know what epiphany I was hoping you would have from learning all this, but I think I wanted it to be less… incredibly selfish.”

“I prefer ‘pragmatic,’ thank you.  And is. It. _Acceptable?”_

She sighed again, but kneeled beside him and held out a glowing hand. “Hold still. Hopefully I can get you well enough to move.” 

“Awww, see, you _can_ have self-preservation instincts sometimes. Why, we’re like real siblings already.”

“You’re going to be insufferable for every single second we work together for the rest of our lives, aren’t you?”

“You may find yourself wishing you’d killed me when you had the chance, yes.”

“Sweet Torm, give me strength,” she muttered, going to work.

“I don’t think he’d like you healing a known thief, actually. Might strip you of your powers. Do you know if there’s a way for a fallen paladin to recover from that?  I bet it’s _incredibly_ difficult _._ ” 

“Sweet Torm, please, I shall need a little more strength than what you’ve already given.”   

* * *

 

Sarevok slid the helmet on, and felt _alive_ again for the first time in entirely too long.   

“Your wounds have healed nicely, sir. You didn’t even have your armor, just the Sword of Chaos, and yet the clerics say they barely had to use any magic at all. I think we can say with some authority that your powers have grown beyond anything I ever predicted,” Winski said calmly, sitting in the corner of the tent as he watched the young master don his second skin.

“They are Cyricists, correct? Mercenaries?” Sarevok asked, his tone dreamlike, almost gentle.

“Yes, sir. A priest and his acolyte, who signed on with the Black Talons. They also handled resurrecting Tazok for you, after…”

“Have them sent in later. Tell them they’re being rewarded with a bonus for their service.”

“… You plan to kill them, then?”

“Priests of Cyric the Usurper? Obviously, they must die. Their fragmented church of maniacs has been useful up to now, but I don’t want their god to turn too much of his gaze in my direction. Best to cut out as many of his eyes as I can, from now on,” Sarevok said, his tone that of a man discussing the weather.  

“Of course, sir,” Winski said, vaguely aware he was lucky to be alive and taking a few steps back, as if that mattered. “I will inform them to meet with you after your next meal, I know you appreciate a diversion after you eat.  Semaj has also managed to scry Tazok’s location, and against all odds he appears to have managed to survive once again and is hiding in the city’s sewers. I will…”

“I don’t care. He’s failed me twice, now. If he has the poor judgment to show his face again, I’ll tear it off with my bare hands,” Sarevok said.

“…Sir, we _can_ acquire him quickly enough, and save a few soldiers who were guarding the excavation of the temple, only Semaj and I remain to serve you.”

“Your point?”

“I only wish to specify that while Tazok is, of course, deserving nothing of death for his failures… we are rather low on manpower. Perhaps you should allow him to serve one final purpose, before you punish him?” Winski suggested. “If nothing else, it would allow you to kill him yourself when you feel the need to vent some frustration.”

The horned helmet turned toward the old mage, the single glowing golden eye behind it casting odd, irregular shadows over the face barely visible through the visor, and for a long few seconds, Sarevok stared at Winski Perorate. Just stared.  He did not speak, did not move toward the old man, did not even appear to be _breathing_. For a brief, terrible moment, Winski wondered if he had pushed just that little bit too far and he was going to be joining the two priests of Cyric on the chopping block.  _Do I have a spell that will let me escape before he can reach me? Does such a spell exist? He’s so **fast** , and this tent seems suddenly so very, very small…_      

“… Heh. You have some spine still, old man. Very well! I suppose after Angelo betrayed me and Tamoko abandoned me, I should begin to value loyalty over competence  at this point,” the armored giant said, chuckling almost pleasantly as he turned his gaze, and Winski let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding.  “Tazok is an animal doomed to die regardless, so he might as well shed his last drops in my name, instead of huddling on some mountain with a mouthful of carrion and some adventurer’s arrow in his throat. Bring him here, but _hurry_. My brother and sister will have begun hunting me again by now. I want to provide them as warm a welcome as I can.”

The old mage smiled and bowed his head. “Actually, my lord, while Semaj has been running errands, I have been considering what else might be done to serve that purpose. Adventuring parties are troublesome, after all, and I am no warrior myself.  I am, however, more than slightly gifted in necromancy, and the temple grounds have provided some _interesting_ materials…”

The glowing-eyed gaze turned back to the mage, but this time there was a glimmer of genuine amusement behind it. “You kept this work a secret, old man.  Were you perhaps planning to use it to bargain for your life when I grew bored of you?”

“Not at all, milord. I am fully aware that if you should ever choose to kill me, you will not be kind enough to provide me time to bargain first. This was merely something I was doing in my spare time, and by happy coincidence you have not yet ended my life, and so I can put it to good use in your name.” 

Sarevok chuckled. “Ah, old man, you’ve always been good at making me laugh. Now, go summon those priests.  I stand on the cusp of godhood, and so long as I’m in a generous mood, I see no reason not to help my loyal employees have a religious experience.” 

* * *

 

Coran, wrapped in a plain traveling cloak like the type every refugee wore, stepped out of the Blade and Stars with a purpose in his step.  It was true that he didn’t _particularly_ enjoy his time with Acherai’s group; they were just a _tiny_ bit evil, and the women were… well, Viconia was lovely for a drow and Shar-teel was lovely for a homicidal lunatic, but he had long ago decided neither woman was what you would call ‘his type’ (and considering how broad ‘his type’ was, that was a damn accomplishment). But still, he had to admit he enjoyed _this_ part. 

If there was one thing he was truly good at it, was hiding in plain sight.  Most elves preferred the forest, and he had to admit there was an appeal (why would he have gone on a wyvern hunt, else?) but the city was where he truly thrived.  To meld with the crowd and become one with the city, more an embodiment of it than a single being, unseen and untouched as he put his finger to the pulse of the world. He stepped out the door and Coran vanished, becoming just one more poor soul on the streets of the Gate, walking as if he had lived there his entire life and gratefully returned after a long absence, heading to a familiar home and a good rest.  He could go into any tavern in the city, and with a few words and a few coins convince the prettiest woman in there that they had seen him on the street a dozen times, that he was well-off indeed, and that surely a few hours away from their husband… just talking, of course… wouldn’t _hurt._ He was a ghost, a phantom of the city, sliding in and out of alleys like a cat.  He stepped forth…

… and a hand smacked him upside the head as soon as he turned the corner.

“Wh-“

“Back to the inn, idiot, I need to avail myself of Viconia’s services and confer with Entar, and then I need a bath. Getting this galumphing ox around the city without being seen has required going through far more sewers than I like to think about,” Acherai snapped, limping past him in the opposite direction, a very tall, powerfully built young lady who stuck out like a sore thumb behind him. 

“I apologize, sir elf. He is… awful. He’s awful,” Sephiria said. 

“I’m awful? We were missing for at least two hours, and he’s only just now leaving to look for me! Did you stop to bed a chambermaid before you started looking for us Coran? Be honest.” 

“Surely he wouldn’t have! He is one of your allies, after all, and what true comrade would…”

Acherai waved her off and said, his tone cold and dead, “Coran, answer the question. I’ll know if you’re lying, you’re not as good at it as you wish you were, ‘ladies’ man.’” 

Coran coughed lightly. “Well… I mean, ‘bed’ is a loaded term, and…”

“Sweet Torm, Acherai, why does everyone you recruit turn out to be _scum,_ ” Sephiria muttered, her conciliatory tone dissolving instantly as the two turned back to the inn, ignoring Coran completely. “The closest you’ve gotten to someone with any moral fiber was a gibbering idiot bard.”  

“Scum are my people, of course. They’re easy to predict and easy to motivate. Scum, sister dear, make the world go ‘round,” Acherai said with a chuckle as they entered the door of the Blade and Stars. They did not hold it open for Coran.

“… Mission accomplished!” Coran said cheerfully, never one to dwell overlong on his personal issues. 

* * *

 

“I found them! Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, it was a dangerous effort,” Coran said, running into the room ahead of the two returning leaders, neither of whom looked particularly happy to be there. 

“Where is Viconia?  I need healing, and so will Shar-teel and Coran when I’m done with hurting them for _leaving me behind,_ ” Acherai snapped. “Speaking of, Entar, your wounds?”

“Recovered, for the most part. We had only one medic until the lady druid arrived, and so I’ve been accepting some minor injury in exchange for saving your drow’s magic in the event of an emergency.”

“Excellent! We have one,” Acherai said, his tone injected with so much false cheer it almost fell from his mouth and smashed through the floor. “She’s nearby, then?”

“I bought out the entire inn, since you seem to have brought a small army to my defense here. She’ll be in one of the rooms, presumably praying,” Entar said. “The lady druid and your mentally unstable wizard are in another, casting some spell.  The rest have scattered to do whatever lunatics do. Why did you recruit ­ _any_ of these people? I own seventeen shops in the city alone and I wouldn’t trust them to run the worst one.” 

“Well, no worries! Sarevok is alive, he’s a monster, and he wants us all very dead, so they won’t be in your hair much longer. We either find him and kill him, soon, or we wake up one night to him ripping the wall down with his bare hands.”

“I should confer with Jaheira about what she needed a mentally unstable wizard for… I’m sorry, do you mean Xan, sir? I’m having difficulty keeping track of the new faces,” Sephiria said, pushing Imoen (who could hug for _days_ if you let her) off to the side. 

“No, the red one. She specifically stated she preferred to use up the magic of the ‘useless one’ as opposed to the ‘wizards she actually tolerated’ when he protested.  One of the times he protested, anyway. He talks quite a lot.” 

Sephiria winced. “Yes, that does sound like… wait, the red one? Acherai, I _hate_ that you are the sort of person that makes me think I must ask this of you, but is he a wizard that wears red, or is he a _Red Wizard_?”

Acherai shrugged. “He _says_ he is, but I’m fairly sure he lied in the job interview. It’s difficult to think a real Thayan would still be alive with the attitude he displays.”

The young paladin rubbed her temples. “Brother, I swear by all the gods, I…”

“WaitwaitwaitWAIT!” Imoen shrieked, leaping between them. “Brother? Who’s a brother? I haven’t got a brother, and so _you_ don’t have one! Especially not some creepy elf! Nothin’ personal, you’re just creepy.”

Acherai chuckled. “Oh, she’s a peach. Tell me, what role do you serve in the group, little one? Emergency food?”

“I’m gonna steal his pants when he’s sleepin’, Seffie. _All_ the pants,” Imoen said, her tone suggesting this was a terribly dark threat indeed.

Sephiria sighed, the long-suffering sigh of one who has returned home to find that their family is _exactly_ how they remember them. “Imoen, this is Acherai. I traveled with his group for a time, remember? Well, he turned out to be rather connected to my… family issues. We’ll talk it over later, okay?” she said, being careful not to look too directly at Entar Silvershield, who was not displaying any overt interest in the discussion before him, and yet she was fairly certain from the look in his eyes that he was absorbing every word that passed through the room. “For now, I want to talk to Jaheira, and Acherai admittedly isn’t fully healed, so…”

“Gather everyone back here in, let’s say two hours, once everyone is rested and at their best? Then we discuss what happens next,” Acherai finished for her.

“Acceptable.”

“I mean,” Imoen said with a brilliant smile, “what harm can all of us cause in two hours?”       

* * *

 

“I would just kill ya,” Shar-teel said lightly, sitting across the table from Xan in the inn’s common room with a full flagon and a smile that reminded him a little of a bear growling.

“… Excuse me?”

“I just been watchin’ you, since our groups hooked up. The big guy, he’s the kind of man I like. Stupid, muscled, takes orders easy. You could sell him for a lot.  The half-elf, he’s not impressive on the outside, but he moves like he’s got training and he did a good job on that ogre. He’d fetch market rate, to the right buyer. But you…” she shrugged. “Scrawny.  Pale. No good for manual labor, and mages are hard to keep contained anyway. Never know when they’re gonna find some weed and throw a fireball, right? And, I mean, you’re down here drinking some prissy elf wine and looking at it like it’s not prissy enough for you, so I assume you’re nothing special in bed. So if it came to a fight, I wouldn’t try to take you alive. You’re not worth it.”

“… … … Why… are you telling me this?” Xan asked slowly.

“I’m bored, and you were down here. So I started thinking about it.” 

“… I… see. And do you… do you always note which of your allies you’re planning to kill or… or sell?”

“Just the men.” 

“Oh.”

“The throat, is where I would aim,” she continued. “Mages, you need to talk to get your spells off, right? Now, you always wrap yourself in magic for defense, all the good ones do, but there ain’t a _man alive_ who won’t flinch like a kicked bitch if you go for the throat. Even if he knows in his mind it won’t kill him, in his _gut_ he’s still afraid. He _feels_ like he’ll die if you hit the right places, and then he can’t focus.”     

“I _do_ often feel like I will die, this is true.”

“HA! See, you’re the kinda man I can appreciate. One who knows his place. Low. Weak. Small,” she said with a grin, draining her tankard and motioning to the waitress for another. “Not like most of them. They think they’re invincible, right up until you gut ‘em.  And don’t get me wrong, I love the gutting part, but up until then it’s just… _infuriating_ to watch them walking around like they’re better than me, when we both know damn well they’re _nothing_.”

“Oh, they _are_ nothing.”

“HA! See, I like you even more now.  You know just… just _men._ A real man should know his place, like you.  My dad, he…”

“Oh, not just men. All of us. Life is empty and pointless,” Xan said with a shrug. “Most people tell themselves that they’re strong, that they matter and will achieve something, but in the end none of us will make a difference.  The gods are childish buffoons playacting at being in control, but the truth is that all of us from Corellon down are being digested by an amoral universe, and there can be no salvation. All of us will die, and when we do we will be forgotten.”

“… … Damn, you’re hardcore,” Shar-teel said, her tone one of sudden appreciation. She reached out, took his glass from his hand, and threw it across the room to shatter against the stone hearth. “Here, get rid of this pansy elf wine. You need a _real_ drink. _Bartender! Ale, **good** ale, and keep it coming or I’ll rip your guts out!”  _

“Oh dear.” 

“Did you know I can shatter a man’s ribs with my thighs? I know because I’ve done it,” Shar-teel said.  And the fact that she apparently thought this was _a good quality_ made Xan more genuinely afraid than he had ever been in his life. “Now, tell me more about how men are worthless and I might start to think you aren’t. Keep me happy, and I might not even stab you after I have my way.” 

“… I am legitimately not certain if being stabbed is better or worse than your affection.”

“HA!”

* * *

 

Dynaheir sighed. “Minsc, thy protectiveness is most often appreciated, but I fear that in this case it impedes my studies. Please do not…”

The door slammed for the third time in the last twenty minutes, and her sigh deepened as Minsc smiled proudly. “I have completed my patrol of the hall, fair Dynaheir! No danger shall approach you, so long as Minsc lives!” 

“Minsc. While I appreciate the need for vigilance, I must note that you have ‘patrolled’ the hall no less than thirty times.”

“I do not count, for all of Minsc’s mighty brain is needed to scan the hall for _foes_. However, Boo knows that wise Dynaheir would never deceive us, and so her words must be true!”

“And you have, in these… many, many sweeps, found nothing.”

“A sign! A sign that Minsc’s vigil has been rewarded!”

“And each and… gods, each and every time, thou feelst the need to slam every door thy encounter.” 

“Many beasts of evil live in the _darkness_ , fair Dynaheir! These creatures, Minsc fears, could not see his _imposing form._ Therefore, Minsc must strike fear into them in other ways! By the slamming of door and the stomping of boot, Minsc shows the forces of evil that he stands _strong and large_ against their _wickedness!_ ” 

Dynaheir blinked. “Well. I suppose that’s… true…? Certainly Sarevok’s support base has been damaged, but we still are fugitives, for the moment.  And that… erm… bearded gentleman worries me.”

Minsc’s eyes widened. “Has he made unwelcome advances?! Challenged your wisdom as a wychlaran?! _Said he dislikes hamsters?!”_

She winced. “No, no… he had been watching me closely before Jaheira took him aside, and though he seems harmless and somewhat dim, I find something unnerving about him nonetheless? Perhaps it is simply the red robes. I know it is childish of me; Red Wizards do not go bearded as a matter of course, but there are far too many bad memories in…”

And then Minsc smashed down the door, and she realized she had perhaps said something wrong.     

* * *

 

Acherai shivered slightly as the healing magic ran down his aching body, and sighed. “Mmmm. You don’t realize how much you’re in _pain_ until it doesn’t hurt anymore. Sarevok hurt me more than I gave him credit for… or Sephiria healed me less. Who knows.”

“And why is _she_ back, in any case?” Viconia muttered, running her glowing hand lightly down his bare chest, what had been an angry red scab already faded to a pale scar. “I seem to recall her being a child of Torm the Fool.  Why, praytell, would you allow her back under your command? Your pragmatic attitude is one of the things that make you tolerable despite your soft, pale flesh, and paladins are incapable of such a thing.”

“Sarevok is more dangerous than you’re thinking. If our entire group managed to catch him by surprise and fight him six-on-one, I wouldn’t be certain of victory,” Acherai said flatly.  “Since that won’t be happening, I want every blade I can arrange to be aimed at him tonight.  I even suggested to Entar he try to reach Iron Throne offices outside the city and tell them what he did to their Gate branch, just to get more assassins on his trail.”

“You’re _afraid,_ ” the drow murmured, clear disgust in her tone.

“I think that’s the sane response to this situation, thank you.”

Her hand slid to his neck, turning his head to look her in the eyes. “But not the one _you_ need. I knew something was special about you from the moment we met, and this has confirmed it!  A demigod of murder, a contender for a divine throne! Can there be any doubt Shar guided me to you, to help you fulfill that destiny? Showing fear, even of your greatest rivals, is _beneath_ you now. A god must carry the arrogance of a god. You are _above_ the rest of us, act like it! Take what you want without fear or remorse!” she said, her voice falling into a low, insistent hiss as she leaned in closer with each word, until her lips were actually touching his ear as she finished, her tone almost animalistic, “No fear. Just take _everything_ you want, here and now.”

“… … … Heh. Hehehehehehe…. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“… Excuse me?” Viconia said, her tone becoming very icy indeed as she pulled back, the elf falling over onto his side in a laughing fit so intense he couldn’t even sit up straight. 

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just… HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Acherai said, wiping tears from his eyes.  “Oh, oh, my, that hurts. HAHAHAHAHA! I just… haha… ha…” he took several long, deep breaths, trying to silence the giggles that had overtaken him with slow, _slow_ success.  It took _minutes._

“You know. I’m used to males reacting with joy when I offer sex, but not of this particular sort,” Viconia said slowly, and the look on her face suggested she was wondering how many blows it would take her to shatter his skull with her bare fists. 

“Oh, it’s not… hahahah… it’s not _that,_ though you… you just _ruined_ the mood,” Acherai said, wiping the last tear of mirth from his face.

“… _I_ ruined it.” 

 _“_ You did! I mean, not on purpose… it’s just you’ve given me something of an epiphany. I just realized why the drow still live in caves worshipping a spider while the rest of us have moved on with our lives, mainly?” Acherai said, shaking his head with a disbelieving chuckle. “Honestly. A divine throne?  You’re so caught up in the supremacy of gods and the idea of power being the ultimate goal of all things, you can’t even see it as the trap it is. Bhaal doesn’t want a successor, he wants a return.” 

“So don’t follow his plan! Take the power and resist his control! Take his throne for yourself, and rise to…”

“But even if it was possible to ascend the Throne of Bhaal without becoming the god’s second coming, and I _doubt it is_ ,” Acherai snapped, raising a hand to silence her, “I certainly don’t want to be a _god._ Do you have any idea how much power I would have to _give up_ to be a _god_?”   

She tilted her head to one side. “So then. Now that you’ve apparently lost your mind, what _do_ you intend to do?”

“My _father_ ,” he said, rolling his eyes at the word, “foresaw his own death years in advance, and couldn’t do anything about it save set up a series of elaborate murders that have already gone _incredibly_ wrong.  That’s so… _limited._   Childish, almost. And then I started thinking about it, and… are any of them any better?  You say Shar ‘guided you’ to me, but did she really? Did she _say_ anything to you? Of course not. She can’t. _Telling people things_ is literally anathema to her. And your old god is a spider who lives underground. I shouldn’t have to explain why _that’s_ silly.”

“… I should, by rights, split your skull open for your insult to my goddess,” Viconia said, but her voice held more curiosity than actual ire. 

“Oh, I wasn’t mocking you. I genuinely wasn’t. You, I can respect. You made a contract in exchange for power, and you’re keeping it. You can break the contract, you can alter the terms, and while you have the power you can do whatever you want with it,” he grinned, and it was somehow both childish and _incredibly_ distressing. “And that’s what I want, Viconia. Not just power for the sake of it. Godhood is a _prison_. What use is power that I can’t put to my own ends?  What do I want to _do_ , you ask? What I want to do, dear heart, is _whatever I damn well please._ I’m a thief at heart, and this world is a big shiny golden chest with bad locks. Money, women, power, influence, all of it is free for the taking if you have a little intellect, a talent for being unseen, and a way with words. Why would I ever want to give that up? To live up in the heavens and act as… manager of other people’s deaths? If given a choice between being a god and being a king, I know which one seems far more fun to _me_. So, my first step from here is to destroy Bhaal. Rip the _memory_ of him from the Realms, forever. And then?” he shrugged. “I really _do_ take anything and everything that I want.  And nobody on this _plane or any other_ will get to tell me what that is.” 

Viconia tilted her head to one side, and blinked a few times.  “I think you may possibly be insane.”

He grinned. “But the very idea of taking a giant bloody _bite_ out of the entire surface world and living like a queen on the backs of those weaker than yourself for the next few centuries has also very much turned you on.” 

“… Clothes _off_ , you pale-skinned madman. I still have plenty of healing spells prepared for the wounds I’m about to give you.” 

His grin widened as he began removing his belt. “And people say the drow are no fun.”   

* * *

 

“I don’t like him,” Imoen muttered. “He smells like evil, and he’s got hair longer than me, and I can _tell_ when someone is sneaky. We can’t trust him.”

Sephiria sighed. “I do not trust him, Imoen. I think it’s impossible to call him anything other than an awful person. But that isn’t the same thing as calling him irredeemable. He… does not _accept_ the darkness. For whatever reason, he doesn’t. That’s at least enough for me to say I can’t simply abandon him to die at Sarevok’s hands. And we do need the allies. I don’t trust him, not fully…”

“Right! Because he’s _not_ your family, and he’s definitely not _our_ family. Blood ain’t thicker than water, Seffie! Water is _great_. Everybody needs water!”       

“… but he _is_ an ally. At least for now. And hopefully… well, I can’t imagine he’ll ever be something I could truly call family. But maybe he could at least claim some form of redemption. If that’s possible, it’s something I have to try for.” 

“… You are _such_ a schmuck.” 

“I am a paladin, Imoen.”

“Same thing!”

“Do _not_ mock my-“

“ _Both! Of! You! Be! Silent!”_ Edwin screamed, whirling on them, golden sparks dancing between his fingers. “Do you think this is _easy_ , inbred barbarians?! This shrieking malevolent harpy has had me hurl a dozen sendings, and…” 

“And she is still in the room, wizard, and not pleased so many of them have failed to reach their targets,” Jaheira said, running a cloth lightly over her well-used staff. It looked very heavy, and harder than a human skull.  Something about being in Jaheira’s hands gave it that impression. 

“You have been no help at all!  (But how could she be, she is a Tethyrian and you know what people say about _them._ ) I have told you, divination is not my chosen field, and your alleged ‘friends’ have rarely been in the places you described them as being!  And you will not give me _any of their real names_ , which does not help!”

“I do not trust you.  Besides, the code phrases should be sufficient… which does tell me a great many people are not where they should be,” Jaheira admitted. “But that in and of itself tells me much. Girls, I need to talk with Khalid.  Would you watch this dolt, please? His _accent_ is Thayan, even if his talent is not, and that tells me not to trust him.”

“Racist. (As one would expect of her mongrel people.)”  

Sephiria sighed, putting a hand on Edwin’s shoulder and pushing him down into a chair in the corner. He did not fight back, which was probably not a bad idea because she could have crushed his collarbone without too much effort. “Jaheira, what _are_ you up to? We deserve an explanation.”

“It doesn’t matter. The efforts so far have borne little fruit, and we’ve little time to engage in anything greater. I am… concerned. I have not had time to find much news from beyond the city, and I doubt there would be anything to find in the region save talk of Amn. But… _something_ has clearly happened, be it Sarevok’s machinations or something else, that has caused chaos in my normal network of contacts.  I need to talk to Khalid, and then we need to move. Faster than I had originally thought. Sarevok must die this night?”  

“Does this have something to do with that old guy that was flirting with me in an alley?” Imoen asked.

Sephiria’s jaw dropped so hard it looked like it was going to “Wait, _what_?”

Imoen grinned. “It was before I found you, in Beregost! He was drawn in by my charms ‘n such, and even slipped me some really neat gifts ‘cause of how important I am.  Jaheira seemed to know him, though… I don’t think he would be drawn to her, though. I’m warm and invitin’ like a field of summer flowers, and she’s terrifying.”

Jaheira sighed. “Unlike usual, Imoen is not entirely wrong.  But contacting him would be of little use. Assuming he isn’t dealing with something worse than our own issues, he still likely wouldn’t offer much direct help.  Those who talk to the gods too often tend to neglect smaller issues.”

“… I’ll want an explanation, Jaheira, because I suspect this has more to do with Gorion than you’ve let on in the time we’ve known each other,” Sephiria said. “We’re well past the point you should have told us everything, and you know it. If you still don’t trust us after everything, after Gorion trusted you with our lives… it may be time to part ways.”

The druid winced. “Stoking guilt does not become you, child, but you are not incorrect. I’ve grown used to secrecy over the years, and it is a difficult habit to break. When this is over, if you still wish it so, all will be explained. Be warned, though, that may find yourself face with even more difficult choices…”

“Jaheira. We’re literally fighting for the fate of thousands. You aren’t going to scare me off by reminding me how _dramatic_ the situation is,” Sephiria said. “I am fully aware that my world has become nothing if not dead serious.”   

And then the wall shattered, Minsc tearing through it, his sword gleaming in his hands and a hamster chittering with fury atop his bald head. “ _THAYAN!  ENEMY OF THE FAIR DYNAHEIR, YOU SHALL FEEL MINSC’S MIGHTY BOOT!”_

“…Help?” Edwin asked. 

Less than a tenth of a second later, the door slammed in, kicked off its hinges, as Shar-teel stepped in, a wide grin on her extremely red face and Xan futilely struggling to get out of her grip. “Everyone, _shut up_ and _get out_. I need a room to ravish this elf, ‘cause _nothing matters_.”  

“Help!” Xan said.

“Shut up and accept it, man! We’re all *hic* doomed, so mightash well have some fun, eh? I’m teach you ‘s like to be wif a _real_ woman, not some skinny elf ladies, and then when I’m done maybe I break your neck. Y’know, fer fun. Everybody wins,” she said.

“That doesn’t sound like I win!” Xan protested. 

“ _MORE WIZARDS IS JUST MORE TARGETS FOR MINSC’S **MIGHTY BOOT**!” _Minsc declared, seeing red in the most literal sense possible. 

“You tryin’ to take my elf?” Shar-teel growled, somewhat shakily drawing her sword and holding Xan in front of herself like a shield.

“ _Why?!”_ Xan asked. 

Behind Minsc, emerging from one of the hole he had made in the room two doors down, Viconia emerged, wearing nothing but her holy symbol and a look of unimaginable fury, black light dancing between her outstretched fingers.

Shar-teel grinned. “Heh. Toldja elf girls were skinny _._ ” 

 “I am going to _kill you all.”_                    

“Feisty, though.”

“Everyone!” Sephiria snapped, stepping forward, her arms raised in a conciliatory gesture. “We are allies, so _please…”_

“ _MIGHTYYYYYYYY! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!”_

_“SweetTormdefendyourfaithf-“_

**_One hour later…_ **

The Blade and Stars common room was empty, because it turned out nobody wanted to spend time in a building with Minsc and Edwin together if they could help it. This included their own teams, but for the moment that issue had been solved by the fact there literally weren’t enough intact rooms on any one floor for everyone to sleep, and so Acherai’s team had set up bedrolls in the cellar. Viconia and Edwin had not been amused, Shar-teel and Kagain were actually very enthusiastic about the idea because that was also where the kegs were, and Coran had snuck out to find a prostitute.

To be fair, nobody knew for sure that was where he had gone, but it was certainly what Acherai had _told_ everyone had happened, before going up to the common room for some alone time. 

“I want you to know,” Acherai said to Sephiria, as he passed her one of the bottles of brandy that had not been shattered, which she pushed away without looking at it, “that this is mostly your team’s fault.” 

“You recruited a Red Wizard of Thay!” 

He shrugged and took a draw of the bottle, wincing as the liquor burned his throat.  “I didn’t think he was _real._ Would you?  I thought he was a mercenary mage who wore red. And I certainly never considered we might run into a godsdamn Rashemi _berserker._ Where did you even _find_ him? Thayans go everywhere, but I’ve only even heard of Rasheman in books.” 

“Imoen found him. She found all of them, honestly. I suppose I should worry more about that.”

Acherai rolled his eyes. “You _should_. That girl has issues, and her pet berserker ruined my night, frankly. Have you ever tried to get a woman in the mood when a seven-foot man smashes through your bedroom wall?”

“Shockingly, I have not.”  

“Well, it doesn’t work,” he said with a sad sigh. “But she probably would have tried to bite my head off like a mantis when she was done, honestly, so I think this might have been for the best. I’ve been curious for ages, but it turns out drow foreplay is just _unbelievably_ violent. Did you know she actually…”

“Do. Not. Share.”

“I have six-inch gashes all down my back.”

Sephiria growled under her breath like an angry dog, grabbing the bottle from him and throwing it across the room to impact against a shattered beam that was poking down from the top floor. “No more of that for you.” 

“Has anyone ever told you that you are the biggest stick in the mud that has _ever lived?_ ”

“… Yes. Imoen, again.”

“HA! Well, maybe she isn’t as strange as I thought.”

“Oh, far stranger. She’s upstairs dyeing a stolen rabbit’s foot pink. Claims the pink makes it ‘extra lucky,’” Sephiria said with a small grin… which faded, quickly.  “It’s tomorrow, you know. Jaheira and Khalid… their attempts to scry all failed, so we can’t confirm, but they at least think they know somewhere he would be operating from. And we both know he’ll be there.”

Acherai nodded. “He wouldn’t have gone somewhere we couldn’t find him. He wants us there. It’s important to him that this play out a certain way. He’s… given up his old self. Completely. And it’s made him… something else. He’s stronger than us. And as long as he follows Bhaal’s will, he might always be,” Acherai said.   

“I grew up without any blood family, you know. I had Gorion, and Imoen, but… every child wants the connection, I think. ‘Father. Mother. Sister. Brother.’ I never spoke up, of course. I knew it would make Gorion and Imoen sad.  But I think every adopted child wonders if they have blood, somewhere out there in the world,” Sephiria said softly.  “I didn’t think I would find anything. I thought even less that when I found it, it would…”

“Be the worst thing in the entire world?” Acherai offered brightly.

“… I was going to put it differently. Yes, Sarevok is a problem, but… you are… you’re not… the _worst_ person I’ve ever met.”  

“You’ve met Garrick, so that’s technically true.” 

“And I… I don’t want to kill Sarevok. I don’t even want to fight him, really, but more than that I do not want him to die here. I hate him, but I still want to save him. I know he’s killed people. H-he… he killed Gorion. My father. My _real_ father, not some dead god that most probably forced itself on my mother,” she said. “But I want to save him. I _need_ it. Not for Tamoko, not even for Torm’s ideals, for… for…”

“To prove you can. That you can’t fall so far you can never come back. Because you hear it in your blood, and you want to be reassured that no matter how deep its claws sink in, you can drag yourself home,” Acherai said.

“… I know it’s selfish. I think I have a right to do what I want, just this once.  Is that so wrong of me?”

“A week ago, I’d have called you a sentimental dolt.  Today… I don’t know. Maybe you have a point. Maybe I should be taking holy orders somewhere just as a precaution. Or maybe anything is okay as long as you’re planting your heels and telling Father Dearest ‘no’ in the loudest voice you can. We have no idea what’s going to happen, really, so do your own thing, and if it works for you, huzzah and all that,” Acherai said.  “And let’s be honest, the sheer fact you can look me in the eye and ask me if it’s all right that you _don’t_ want to kill someone is probably a sign that you’re a decent sort.”   

She grinned. “Why, that almost sounded like a compliment.” 

“I’d tell you that you were the best sister ever if you hadn’t ruined the last decent brandy in this rathole. As it is, the best you get is ‘you’re not the worst person I’ve ever met either.’”

“Heh… thank you, Acherai. I’m not sure if you meant it or not, but this has been helpful, in its way. Now, you should to get some sleep, or… reverie, isn’t it called when elves do it? We march in four hours.”  

“If I could rest, I’d already be doing it. I assume you’re in the same boat.”

“… Not incorrect.”

Acherai grinned, and closed his eyes. “Well. We could always pass the time telling stories of the old days. Remember that time you stopped to pray before fighting a serial killer priest of Cyric, and he crushed your ribs with a lightning hammer?”

“I take it back. You are the worst person I have ever met.”

“I consider it my brotherly duty.” 

* * *

 

The skull sigil of Bhaal that adorned the center of the main chamber’s floor pulsed with black light once. Twice. Three times. Like a beating heart, but just slightly too slow.  A heart that was losing strength, on the verge of stopping altogether.   

And as they had been doing at a steady pace for the last three hours of Winski’s work, a figure in the ruined temple rose, the creaking of bone against metal and leather filling the silence, the shrieking of armor rusted by years of blood and neglect shrieking out across the temple grounds.

Sarevok smiled behind his helmet, idly toying with a spot of dried blood on his gauntlet from where he had ripped the throat from one of the mercenary priest the evening prior. “Well done, old man. You’ve earned your life another day.” 

“That is all I can ask, milord,” Winski said, sitting heavily upon a larger piece of rubble and wiping the sweat from his brow.  “The work is complete. I beg your forbearance to rest and prepare new spells for the morrow?”

“I wonder. Wherever Father is, do you suppose he can see this? Me taking his tools from his dead hands and turning them to my own purposes? That I am on the path to supplant him, to take everything he once was and make it eternally _mine_?  If he has any mind left at all, I hope it is _screaming_ ,” Sarevok murmured, and Winski did not answer, because he understood the master was not really talking to _him._ He stepped into the darkness, raising a gauntleted hand to run it along the armor of one of the silent figures, brushing away years of dust and cobwebs. “This is a good symbol. I think when I become Lord of Murder, I will use something very similar.  The skull of Bhaal can remain, but impaled by my sword. To let the people remember him, just enough that they all know he was in every way my _inferior._ ”

“As my lord wills it.” 

“And the teardrops… I think I shall change the number. One for each of my siblings that I kill with my own hands, during my ascension. In fact…”

He dug one of his gauntlet spikes into the rusted metal, and slowly, deliberately scratched out every stylized teardrop surrounding the holy symbol, eventually leaving only three.  One for the man he had thrown from the top of the Iron Throne’s tower, a lifetime ago. 

And two for the morning’s work.

“Yes. I like it. A changing symbol, to show my progress along the path… and a memorial to the stepping stones I walk upon. A ruler should honor the little people who made his reign possible, don’t you think?”   

Winski grinned terribly, his face a skull in the shadows. “Generosity to the fallen, milord? I hadn’t thought you capable of it.”

Sarevok’s smile behind his helmet was nothing that should have ever graced a human face. “Just this once.”  

 ** _I consider it my brotherly duty._**     


End file.
